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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 


The  Trail  of  the 
Goldseekers 


A  Record  of  Travel  in  Prose  and  Verse 


By 
HAMLIN   GARLAND 

Author  of 

Rose  of  Butcher's  Coolly 
Main  Travelled  Roads 

Prairie  Folks 
Boy  Life  on  the  Prairie,  etc. 


New  York 
The  Macmillan  Company 

London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  Ltd. 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,   1899, 
BY   HAMLIN    GARLAND. 


Norwood  Press 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Coming  of  the  Ships  .....          3 

II.  Outfitting          .          .          .          .          .          .11 

III.  On  the  Stage  Road 21 

IV.  In  Camp  at  Quesnelle          .          .          .          •        33 
V.     The  Blue  Rat 37 

VI.  The  Beginning  of  the  Long  Trail  ...        45 

VII.  The  Blackwater  Divide        .          .         .          .53 

VIII.  We  swim  the  Nechaco        ....       63 

IX.  First  Crossing  of  the  Bulkley         .          .          •        73 

X.  Down  the  Bulkley  Valley    .          .          .    .      .        81 

XI.  Hazleton.      Midway  on  the  Trail           .          .        97 

XII.  Crossing  the  Big  Divide       .          .          .          .107 

XIII.  The  Silent  Forests 119 

XIV.  The  Great  Stikeen  Divide    .          .          .          .131 
XV.  In  the  Cold  Green  Mountains       .          .          .      139 

XVI.  The  Passing  of  the  Beans     .          .          .          .      1 5 1 

XVII.  The  Wolves  and  the  Vultures  Assemble           .      163 

XVIII.     At  Last  the  Stikeen 175 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  The  Goldseekers'  Camp  at  Glenora  .  .185 

XX.  Great  News  at  Wrangell      .          .  .  .  195 

XXI.  The  Rush  to  Atlin  Lake       .          .  •' -..  .  207 

XXII.  Atlin  Lake  and  the  Gold  Fields     .  '.  ,  217 

XXIII.  The  End  of  the  Trail           .          ?  .  .  231 

XXIV.  Homeward  Bound      .          .          .  .  .  241 
XXV.  Ladrone  travels  in  State        .          .  .  .  251 

XXVI.  The  Goldseekers  reach  the  Golden  River  V  259 


POEMS 

Anticipation            .          .          ...  .  .  i 

Where  the  Desert  flames  with  Furnace  Heat  .  .  2 

The  Cow-boy         .          .          .                   .  .  9 

From  Plain  to  Peak           .          .          .          .  .  .  19 

Momentous  Hour   .          .                 ^  .  \  .  .  31 

A  Wish         .        ;.'•'.         .         .          .  .:  .  32 

The  Gift  of  Water .          .         .          .       ...  .  .  35 

Mounting      •          ,    .      .          ,          .•         .  .  .*  35 

The  Eagle  Trail      .          .         .          .         .      •    .  .  36 

Moon  on  the  Plain            .-         .          .          .  -*  .  43 

The  Whooping  Crane       .          .          .          .  •.  .  51 

The  Loon      * .51 

Yet  still  we  rode     ....  61 


Contents  vii 


PAGE 


The  Gaunt  Gray  Wolf  ....        79 

Abandoned  on  the  Trail   .          .          *          .          .          .80 

Do  you  fear  the  Wind  ? 95 

Siwash  Graves 105 

Line  up,  Brave  Boys         .          .          .          .          .          .106 

A  Child  of  the  Sun 117 

In  the  Grass 1 1 8 

The  Faithful  Broncos 129 

The  Whistling  Marmot 130 

The  Clouds 137 

The  Great  Stikeen  Divide 138 

The  Ute  Lover 147 

Devil's  Club 150 

In  the  Cold  Green  Mountains   .          .          .          .          .150 

The  Long  Trail 159 

The  Greeting  of  the  Roses 161 

The  Vulture 172 

Campfires      .          .          .          .          .          .          .  173 

The  Footstep  in  the  Desert 182 

So  this  is  the  End  of  the  Trail  to  him  .          .          .190 

The  Toil  of  the  Trail 193 

The  Goldseekers .205 

The  Coast  Range  of  Alaska 215 

The  Freeman  of  the  Hills 229 


viii  Contents 


PAGE 


The  Voice  of  the  Maple  Tree 230 

A  Girl  on  the  Trail  .          .  .          .          .      239 

O  the  Fierce  Delight 249 

The  Lure  of  the  Desert 258 

This  out  of  All  will  remain        .          .          .          .          .262 
Here  the  Trail  ends          .          .          .          .         .         .263 


ANTICIPATION 

I  will  wash  my  brain  in  the  splendid  breeze, 
I  will  lay  my  cheek  to  the  northern  sun, 
I  will  drink  the  breath  of  the  mossy  trees, 
And  the  clouds  shall  meet  me  one  by  one. 
I  will  fling  the  scholar's  pen  aside, 
And  grasp  once  more  the  bronco's  rein, 
And  I  will  ride  and  ride  and  ride, 
Till  the  rain  is  snow,  and  the  seed  is  grain. 

The  way  is  long  and  cold  and  lone  — 

But  I  go. 

It  leads  where  pines  forever  moan 
Their  weight  of  snow, 

Yet  I  go. 

There  are  voices  in  the  wind  that  call, 
There  are  hands  that  beckon  to  the  plain; 
I  must  journey  where  the  trees  grow  tall, 
And  the  lonely  heron  clamors  in  the"  rain. 


Where  the  desert  flames  with  furnace  heat, 

I  have  trod. 
Where  the  horned  toad's  tiny  feet 

In  a  land 

Of  burning  sand 

Leave  a  mark, 

I  have  ridden  in  the  moon  and  in  the  dark. 
Now  I  go  to  see  the  snows, 
Where  the  mossy  mountains  rise 
Wild  and  bleak  —  and  the  rose 
And  pink  of  morning  fill  the  skies 
With  a  color  that  is  singing, 

And  the  lights 

Of  polar  nights 

Utter  cries 
As  they  sweep  from  star  to  star, 

Swinging,  ringing, 
Where  the  sunless  middays  are. 


THE 
TRAIL    OF   THE    GOLDSEEKERS 

CHAPTER   I 

COMING    OF    THE    SHIPS 


A  LITTLE  over  a  year  ago  a  small  steamer  swung  to 
at  a  Seattle  wharf,  and  emptied  a  flood  of  eager  passen 
gers  upon  the  dock.  It  was  an  obscure  craft,  making 
infrequent  trips  round  the  Aleutian  Islands  (which  form 
the  farthest  western  point  of  the  United  States)  to  the 
mouth  of  a  practically  unknown  river  called  the  Yukon, 
which  empties  into  the  ocean  near  the  post  of  St. 
Michaels,  on  the  northwestern  coast  of  Alaska. 

The  passengers  on  this  boat  were  not  distinguished 
citizens,  nor  fair  to  look  upon.  They  were  roughly 
dressed,  and  some  of  them  were  pale  and  worn  as  if 
with  long  sickness  or  exhausting  toil.  Yet  this  ship 
and  these  passengers  startled  the  whole  English-speaking 
world.  Swift  as  electricity  could  fly,  the  magical  word 
GOLD  went  forth  like  a  brazen  eagle  across  the  con 
tinent  to  turn  the  faces  of  millions  of  earth's  toilers 
toward  a  region  which,  up  to  that  time,  had  been 
unknown  or  of  ill  report.  For  this  ship  contained  a 

3 


4  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

million  dollars  in  gold :  these  seedy  passengers  carried 
great  bags  of  nuggets  and  bottles  of  shining  dust  which 
they  had  burned,  at  risk  of  their  lives,  out  of  the  per 
petually  frozen  ground,  so  far  in  the  north  that  the 
winter  had  no  sun  and  the  summer  midnight  had  no 
dusk. 

The  world  was  instantly  filled  with  the  stories  of  these 
men  and  of  their  tons  of  bullion.  There  was  a  moment 
of  arrested  attention  —  then  the  listeners  smiled  and 
nodded  knowingly  to  each  other,  and  went  about  their 
daily  affairs. 

But  other  ships  similarly  laden  crept  laggardly  through 
the  gates  of  Puget  Sound,  bringing  other  miners  with 
bags  and  bottles,  and  then  the  world  believed.  There 
after  the  journals  of  all  Christendom  had  to  do  with  the 
"Klondike"  and  "The  Golden  River."  Men  could 
not  hear  enough  or  read  enough  of  the  mysterious 
Northwest. 

In  less  than  ten  days  after  the  landing  of  the  second 
ship,  all  trains  westward-bound  across  America  were 
heavily  laden  with  fiery-hearted  adventurers,  who  set 
their  faces  to  the  new  Eldorado  with  exultant  confidence, 
resolute  to  do  and  dare. 

Miners  from  Colorado  and  cow-boys  from  Montana 
met  and  mingled  with  civil  engineers  and  tailors  from 
New  York  City,  and  adventurous  merchants  from 
Chicago  set  shoulder  to  shoemakers  from  Lynn.  All 
kinds  and  conditions  of  prospectors  swarmed  upon  the 
boats  at  Seattle,  Vancouver,  and  other  coast  cities. 
Some  entered  upon  new  routes  to  the  gold  fields,  which 


Coming  of  the  Ships  5 

were  now  known  to  be  far  in  the  Yukon  Valley,  while 
others  took  the  already  well-known  route  by  way  of  St. 
Michaels,  and  thence  up  the  sinuous  and  sinister  stream 
whose  waters  began  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  glacial 
peaks  just  inland  from  Juneau,  and  swept  to  the  north 
and  west  for  more  than  two  thousand  miles.  It  was 
understood  that  this  way  was  long  and  hard  and  cold, 
yet  thousands  eagerly  embarked  on  keels  of  all  designs  and 
of  all  conditions  of  unseaworthiness.  By  far  the  greater 
number  assaulted  the  mountain  passes  of  Skagway. 

As  the  autumn  came  on,  the  certainty  of  the  gold 
deposits  deepened  ;  but  the  tales  of  savage  cliffs,  of  snow- 
walled  trails,  of  swift  and  icy  rivers,  grew  more  numer 
ous,  more  definite,  and  more  appalling.  Weak-hearted 
Jasons  dropped  out  and  returned  to  warn  their  friends 
of  the  dread  powers  to  be  encountered  in  the  northern 
mountains. 

As  the  uncertainties  of  the  river  route  and  the  suffer 
ings  and  toils  of  the  Chilcoot  and  the  White  Pass  became 
known,  the  adventurers  cast  about  to  find  other  ways  of 
reaching  the  gold  fields,  which  had  come  now  to  be 
called  "  The  Klondike,"  because  of  the  extreme  richness 
of  a  small  river  of  that  name  which  entered  the  Yukon, 
well  on  toward  the  Arctic  Circle. 

From  this  attempt  to  avoid  the  perils  of  other  routes, 
much  talk  arose  of  the  Dalton  Trail,  the  Taku  Trail,  the 
Stikeen  Route,  the  Telegraph  Route,  and  the  Edmonton 
Overland  Trail.  Every  town  within  two  thousand  miles 
of  the  Klondike  River  advertised  itself  as  "  the  point  of 
departure  for  the  gold  fields,"  and  set  forth  the  special 


6  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

advantages  of  its  entrance  way,  crying  out  meanwhile 
against  the  cruel  mendacity  of  those  who  dared  to  sug 
gest  other  and  "  more  dangerous  and  costly  "  ways. 

The  winter  was  spent  in  urging  these  claims,  and 
thousands  of  men  planned  to  try  some  one  or  the  other 
of  these  "  side-doors."  The  movement  overland  seemed 
about  to  surpass  the  wonderful  transcontinental  march 
of  miners  in  '49  and  '50,  and  those  who  loved  the 
trail  for  its  own  sake  and  were  eager  to  explore  an 
unknown  country  hesitated  only  between  the  two 
trails  which  were  entirely  overland.  One  of  these  led 
from  Edmonton  to  the  head-waters  of  the  Pelly,  the 
other  started  from  the  Canadian  Pacific  Railway  at 
Ashcroft  and  made  its  tortuous  way  northward  between 
the  great  glacial  coast  range  on  the  left  and  the  lateral 
spurs  of  the  Continental  Divide  on  the  east. 

The  promoters  of  each  of  these  routes  spoke  of  the 
beautiful  valleys  to  be  crossed,  of  the  lovely  streams 
filled  with  fish,  of  the  game  and  fruit.  Each  was  called 
"  the  poor  man's  route,"  because  with  a  few  ponies  and 
a  gun  the  prospector  could  traverse  the  entire  distance 
during  the  summer,  "  arriving  on  the  banks  of  the 
Yukon,  not  merely  browned  and  hearty,  but  a  veteran 
of  the  trail." 

It  was  pointed  out  also  that  the  Ashcroft  Route  led 
directly  across  several  great  gold  districts  and  that  the 
adventurer  could  combine  business  and  pleasure  on  the 
trip  by  examining  the  Ominica  country,  the  Kisgagash 
Mountains,  the  Peace  River,  and  the  upper  waters  of 
the  Stikeen.  These  places  were  all  spoken  of  as  if  they 


Coming  of  the  Ships  7 

were  close  beside  the  trail  and  easy  of  access,  and  the 
prediction  was  freely  made  that  a  flood  of  men  would 
sweep  up  this  valley  such  as  had  never  been  known  in 
the  history  of  goldseeking. 

As  the  winter  wore  on  this  prediction  seemed  about 
to  be  realized.  In  every  town  in  the  West,  in  every 
factory  in  the  East,  men  were  organizing  parties  of  ex 
ploration.  Grub  stakers  by  the  hundred  were  outfitted, 
a  vast  army  was  ready  to  march  in  the  early  spring, 
when  a  new  interest  suddenly  appeared  —  a  new  army 
sprang  into  being. 

Against  the  greed  for  gold  arose  the  lust  of  battle. 
WAR  came  to  change  the  current  of  popular  interest. 
The  newspapers  called  home  their  reporters  in  the  North 
and  sent  them  into  the  South,  the  Dakota  cow-boys  just 
ready  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  goldseekers  entered  the 
army  of  the  United  States,  rinding  in  its  Southern  cam 
paigns  an  outlet  to  their  undying  passion  for  adventure ; 
while  the  factory  hands  who  had  organized  themselves 
into  a  goldseeking  company  turned  themselves  into  a 
squad  of  military  volunteers.  For  the  time  the  gold  of 
the  North  was  forgotten  in  the  war  of  the  South. 


II 

However,  there  were  those  not  so  profoundly  inter 
ested  in  the  war  or  whose  arrangements  had  been 
completed  before  the  actual  outbreak  of  cannon-shot, 
and  would  not  be  turned  aside.  An  immense  army  still 
pushed  on  to  the  north.  This  I  joined  on  the  2Oth 


8  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

day  of  April,  leaving  my  home  in  Wisconsin,  bound  for 
the  overland  trail  and  bearing  a  joyous  heart.  I  be 
lieved  that  I  was  about  to  see  and  take  part  in  a  most 
picturesque  and  impressive  movement  across  the  wilder 
ness.  I  believed  it  to  be  the  last  great  march  of  the 
kind  which  could  ever  come  in  America,  so  rapidly  were 
the  wild  places  being  settled  up.  I  wished,  therefore,  to 
take  part  in  this  tramp  of  the  goldseekers,  to  be  one  of 
them,  and  record  their  deeds.  I  wished  to  return  to  the 
wilderness  also,  to  forget  books  and  theories  of  art  and 
social  problems,  and  come  again  face  to  face  with  the 
great  free  spaces  of  woods  and  skies  and  streams.  I 
was  not  a  goldseeker,  but  a  nature  hunter,  and  I  was 
eager  to  enter  this,  the  wildest  region  yet  remaining  in 
Northern  America.  I  willingly  and  with  joy  took  the 
long  way  round,  the  hard  way  through. 


THE    COW-BOY 

Of  rough  rude  stock  this  saddle  sprite 

Is  grosser  grown  with  savage  things. 

Inured  to  storms,  his  fierce  delight 

Is  lawless  as  the  beasts  he  swings 

His  swift  rope  over.  —  Libidinous,  obscene, 

Careless  of  dust  and  dirt,  serene, 

He  faces  snows  in  calm  disdain, 

Or  makes  his  bed  down  in  the  rain. 


CHAPTER  II 

OUTFITTING 

WE  went  to  sleep  while  the  train  was  rushing  past 
the  lonely  settler's  shacks  on  the  Minnesota  Prairies. 
When  we  woke  we  found  ourselves  far  out  upon  the 
great  plains  of  Canada.  The  morning  was  cold  and 
rainy,  and  there  were  long  lines  of  snow  in  the  swales 
of  the  limitless  sod,  which  was  silent,  dun,  and  still, 
with  a  majesty  of  arrested  motion  like  a  polar  ocean. 
It  was  like  Dakota  as  I  saw  it  in  1881.  When  it  was 
a  treeless  desolate  expanse,  swept  by  owls  and  hawks, 
cut  by  feet  of  wild  cattle,  unmarred  and  unadorned  of 
man.  The  clouds  ragged,  forbidding,  and  gloomy  swept 
southward  as  if  with  a  duty  to  perform.  No  green 
thing  appeared,  all  was  gray  and  sombre,  and  the  hori 
zon  lines  were  hid  in  the  cold  white  mist.  Spring  was 
just  coming  on. 

Our  car,  which  was  a  tourist  sleeper,  was  filled  with 
goldseekers,  some  of  them  bound  for  the  Stikeen  River, 
some  for  Skagway.  While  a  few  like  myself  had  set 
out  for  Teslin  Lake  by  \tfay  of  "  The  Prairie  Route." 
There  were  women  going  to  join  their  husbands  at 
Dawson  City,  and  young  girls  on  their  way  to  Van 
couver  and  Seattle,  and  whole  families  emigrating  to 
Washington. 

IX 


12  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

By  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  we  were  pretty  well 
acquainted,  and  knowing  that  two  long  days  were  before 
us,  we  set  ourselves  to  the  task  of  passing  the  time. 
The  women  cooked  their  meals  on  the  range  in  the 
forward  part  of  the  car,  or  attended  to  the  toilets  of  the 
children,  quite  as  regularly  as  in  their  own  homes; 
while  the  men,  having  no  duties  to  perform,  played 
cards,  or  talked  endlessly  concerning  their  prospects  in 
the  Northwest,  and  when  weary  of  this,  joined  in  sing 
ing  topical  songs. 

No  one  knew  his  neighbor's  name,  and,  for  the  most 
part,  no  one  cared.  All  were  in  mountaineer  dress, 
with  rifles,  revolvers,  and  boxes  of  cartridges,  and  the 
sight  of  a  flock  of  antelopes  developed  in  each  man  a 
frenzy  of  desire  to  have  a  shot  at  them.  It  was  a  wild 
ride,  and  all  day  we  climbed  over  low  swells,  passing 
little  lakes  covered  with  geese  and  brant,  practically 
the  only  living  things.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  en 
tered  upon  the  Selkirks,  where  no  life  was. 

These  mountains  I  had  long  wished  to  see,  and  they 
were  in  no  sense  a  disappointment.  Desolate,  death- 
haunted,  they  pushed  their  white  domes  into  the  blue 
sky  in  savage  grandeur.  The  little  snow-covered  towns 
seemed  to  cower  at  their  feet  like  timid  animals  lost  in 
the  immensity  of  the  forest.  All  day  we  rode  among 
these  heights,  and  at  night  we  went  to  sleep  feeling  the 
chill  of  their  desolate  presence. 

We  reached  Ashcroft  (which  was  the  beginning  of 
the  long  trail)  at  sunrise.  The  town  lay  low  on  the 
sand,  a  spatter  of  little  frame  buildings,  mainly  saloons 


Outfitting  13 

and  lodging  houses,  and  resembled  an  ordinary  cow- 
town  in  the  Western  States. 

Rivers  of  dust  were  flowing  in  the  streets  as  we  de 
barked  from  the  train.  The  land  seemed  dry  as  ashes, 
and  the  hills  which  rose  near  resembled  those  of  Mon 
tana  or  Colorado.  The  little  hotel  swarmed  with  the 
rudest  and  crudest  types  of  men ;  not  dangerous  men, 
only  thoughtless  and  profane  teamsters  and  cow-boys, 
who  drank  thirstily  and  ate  like  wolves.  They  spat 
on  the  floor  while  at  the  table,  leaning  on  their  elbows 
gracelessly.  In  the  bar-room  they  drank  and  chewed 
tobacco,  and  talked  in  loud  voices  upon  nothing  at  all. 

Down  on  the  flats  along  the  railway  a  dozen  camps 
of  Klondikers  were  set  exposed  to  the  dust  and  burning 
sun.  The  sidewalks  swarmed  with  outfitters.  Every 
where  about  us  the  talk  of  teamsters  and  cattle  men 
went  on,  concerning  regions  of  which  I  had  never 
heard.  Men  spoke  of  Hat  Creek,  the  Chilcoten  coun 
try,  Soda  Creek,  Lake  La  Hache,  and  Lilloat.  China 
men  in  long  boots,  much  too  large  for  them,  came  and 
went  sombrely,  buying  gold  sacks  and  picks.  They 
were  mining  quietly  on  the  upper  waters  of  the  Fraser, 
and  were  popularly  supposed  to  be  getting  rich. 

The  townspeople  were  possessed  of  thrift  quite  Amer 
ican  in  quality,  and  were  making  the  most  of  the  rush 
over  the  trail.  "The  grass  is  improving  each  day," 
they  said  to  the  goldseekers,  who  were  disposed  to  feel 
that  the  townsmen  were  anything  but  disinterested,  es 
pecially  the  hotel  keepers.  Among  the  outfitters  of 
course  the  chief  beneficiaries  were  the  horse  dealers, 


14  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

and  every  corral  swarmed  with  mangy  little  cayuses, 
thin,  hairy,  and  wild-eyed;  while  on  the  fences,  in 
silent  meditation  or  low-voiced  conferences,  the  intend 
ing  purchasers  sat  in  rows  like  dyspeptic  ravens.  The 
wind  storm  continued,  filling  the  houses  with  dust  and 
making  life  intolerable  in  the  camps  below  the  town. 
But  the  crowds  moved  to  and  fro  restlessly  on  the  one 
wooden  sidewalk,  outfitting  busily.  The  costumes  were 
as  various  as  the  fancies  of  the  men,  but  laced  boots 
and  cow-boy  hats  predominated. 

As  I  talked  with  some  of  the  more  thoughtful  and 
conscientious  citizens,  I  found  them  taking  a  very  se 
rious  view  of  our  trip  into  the  interior.  "  It  is  a 
mighty  hard  and  long  road,"  they  said,  u  and  a  lot  of 
those  fellows  who  have  never  tried  a  trail  of  this  kind 
will  find  it  anything  but  a  picnic  excursion."  They 
had  known  a  few  men  who  had  been  as  far  as  Hazle- 
ton,  and  the  tales  of  rain,  flies,  and  mosquitoes  which 
these  adventurers  brought  back  with  them,  they  re 
peated  in  confidential  whispers. 

However,  I  had  determined  to  go,  and  had  prepared 
myself  for  every  emergency.  I  had  designed  an  insect- 
proof  tent,  and  was  provided  with  a  rubber  mattress, 
a  down  sleeping-bag,  rain-proof  clothing,  and  stout 
shoes.  I  purchased,  as  did  many  of  the  others,  two 
bills  of  goods  from  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  to  be 
delivered  at  Hazleton  on  the  Skeena,  and  at  Glenora 
on  the  Stikeen.  Even  with  this  arrangement  it  was 
necessary  to  carry  every  crumb  of  food,  in  one  case 
three  hundred  and  sixty  miles,  and  in  the  other  case 


Outfitting  1 5 

four  hundred  miles.  However,  the  first  two  hundred 
and  twenty  miles  would  be  in  the  nature  of  a  practice 
march,  for  the  trail  ran  through  a  country  with  occa 
sional  ranches  where  feed  could  be  obtained.  We 
planned  to  start  with  four  horses,  taking  on  others  as 
we  needed  them.  And  for  one  week  we  scrutinized 
the  ponies  swarming  around  the  corrals,  in  an  attempt 
to  find  two  packhorses  that  would  not  give  out  on  the 
trail,  or  buck  their  packs  off  at  the  start. 

"We  do  not  intend  to  be  bothered  with  a  lot  of 
mean  broncos,"  I  said,  and  would  not  permit  myself 
to  be  deceived.  Before  many  days  had  passed,  we  had 
acquired  the  reputation  of  men  who  thoroughly  knew 
what  they  wanted.  At  least,  it  became  known  that  we 
would  not  buy  wild  cay  uses  at  an  exorbitant  price. 

All  the  week  long  we  saw  men  starting  out  with  sore- 
backed  or  blind  or  weak  or  mean  broncos,  and  heard 
many  stories  of  their  troubles  and  trials.  The  trail  was 
said  to  be  littered  for  fifty  miles  with  all  kinds  of 
supplies. 

One  evening,  as  I  stood  on  the  porch  of  the  hotel,  I 
saw  a  man  riding  a  spirited  dapple-gray  horse  up  the 
street.  As  I  watched  the  splendid  fling  of  his  fore 
feet,  the  proud  carriage  of  his  head,  the  splendid  nostrils, 
the  deep  intelligent  eyes,  I  said  :  "  There  is  my  horse  ! 
I  wonder  if  he  is  for  sale." 

A  bystander  remarked,  "  He's  coming  to  see  you, 
and  you  can  have  the  horse  if  you  want  it." 

The  rider  drew  rein,  and  I  went  out  to  meet  him. 
After  looking  the  horse  all  over,  with  a  subtle  show  of 


1 6  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

not  being  in  haste,  I  asked,  "  How  much  will  you  take 
for  him  ?  " 

"  Fifty  dollars,"  he  replied,  and  I  knew  by  the  tone 
of  his  voice  that  he  would  not  take  less. 

I  hemmed  and  hawed  a  decent  interval,  examining 
every  limb  meanwhile ;  finally  I  said,  "  Get  off  your 
horse." 

With  a  certain  sadness  the  man  complied.  I  placed 
in  his  hand  a  fifty-dollar  bill,  and  took  the  horse  by  the 
bridle.  "What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  I  call  him  Prince." 

"  He  shall  be  called  Prince  Ladrone,"  I  said  to  Bur 
ton,  as  I  led  the  horse  away. 

Each  moment  increased  my  joy  and  pride  in  my 
dapple-gray  gelding.  I  could  scarcely  convince  myself 
of  my  good  fortune,  and  concluded  there  must  be  some 
thing  the  matter  with  the  horse.  I  was  afraid  of  some 
trick,  some  meanness,  for  almost  all  mountain  horses 
are  "  streaky,"  but  I  could  discover  nothing.  He  was 
quick  on  his  feet  as  a  cat,  listened  to  every  word  that 
was  spoken  to  him,  and  obeyed  as  instantly  and  as 
cheerfully  as  a  dog.  He  took  up  his  feet  at  request,  he 
stood  over  in  the  stall  at  a  touch,  and  took  the  bit 
readily  (a  severe  test).  In  every  way  he  seemed  to  be 
exactly  the  horse  I  had  been  waiting  for.  I  became 
quite  satisfied  of  his  value  the  following  morning,  when 
his  former  owner  said  to  me,  in  a  voice  of  sadness, 
u  Now  treat  him  well,  won't  you  ? " 

"  He  shall  have  the  best  there  is,"  I  replied. 

My   partner,  meanwhile,  had  rustled   together  three 


Outfitting  17 

packhorses,  which  were  guaranteed  to  be  kind  and 
gentle,  and  so  at  last  we  were  ready  to  make  a  trial.  It 
was  a  beautiful  day  for  a  start,  sunny,  silent,  warm, 
with  great  floating  clouds  filling  the  sky. 

We  had  tried  our  tent,  and  it  was  pronounced  a  "  Jim- 
cracker-jack  "  by  all  who  saw  it,  and  exciting  almost  as 
much  comment  among  the  natives  as  my  Anderson 
pack-saddles.  Our  "  truck  "  was  ready  on  the  platform 
of  the  storehouse,  and  the  dealer  in  horses  had  agreed  to 
pack  the  animals  in  order  to  show  that  they  were  "  as 
represented."  The  whole  town  turned  out  to  see  the 
fun.  The  first  horse  began  bucking  before  the  pack- 
saddle  was  fairly  on,  to  the  vast  amusement  of  the  by 
standers. 

"That  will  do  for  that  beast,"  I  remarked,  and  he 
was  led  away.  u  Bring  up  your  other  candidate." 

The  next  horse  seemed  to  be  gentle  enough,  but 
when  one  of  the  men  took  off  his  bandanna  and  began 
binding  it  round  the  pony's  head,  I  interrupted. 

"  That'll  do,"  I  said  ;  "  I  know  that  trick.  I  don't 
want  a  horse  whose  eyes  have  to  be  blinded.  Take  him 
away." 

This  left  us  as  we  were  before,  with  the  exception  of 
Ladrone.  An  Indian  standing  near  said  to  Burton,  "  I 
have  gentle  horse,  no  buck,  all  same  like  dog." 

"All  right,"  said  partner,  with  a  sigh,  "let's  see 
him." 

The  "  dam  Siwash  "  proved  to  be  more  reliable  than 
his  white  detractor.  His  horses  turned  out  to  be  gentle 
and  strong,  and  we  made  a  bargain  without  noise.  At 


1 8  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

last  it  seemed  we  might  be  able  to  get  away.  "To 
morrow  morning,"  said  I  to  Burton,  "  if  nothing  further 
intervenes,  we  hit  the  trail  a  resounding  whack." 

All  around  us  similar  preparations  were  going  on. 
Half-breeds  were  breaking  wild  ponies,  cow-boys  were 
packing,  roping,  and  instructing  the  tenderfoot,  the 
stores  swarmed  with  would-be  miners  fitting  out,  while 
other  outfits  already  supplied  were  crawling  up  the 
distant  hill  like  loosely  articulated  canvas-colored  worms. 
Outfits  from  Spokane  and  other  southern  towns  began  to 
drop  down  into  the  valley,  and  every  train  from  the  East 
brought  other  prospectors  to  stand  dazed  and  wondering 
before  the  squalid  little  camp.  Each  day,  each  hour, 
increased  the  general  eagerness  to  get  away. 


FROM    PLAIN    TO    PEAK 

From  hot  low  sands  aflame  with  heat, 

From  crackling  cedars  dripping  odorous  gum, 

I  ride  to  set  my  burning  feet 

On  heights  whence  Uncompagre's  waters  hum, 

From  rock  to  rock,  and  run 

As  white  as  wool. 

My  panting  horse  sniffs  on  the  breeze 

The  water  smell,  too  faint  for  me  to  know; 

But  I  can  see  afar  the  trees, 

Which  tell  of  grasses  where  the  asters  blow, 

And  columbines  and  clover  bending  low 
Are  honey-full. 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  snow-fields,  bright 
As  burnished  shields  of  tempered  steel, 

And  round  each  sovereign  lonely  height 
I  watch  the  storm-clouds  vault  and  reel, 

Heavy  with  hail  and  trailing 
Veils  of  sleet. 

"  Hurrah,  my  faithful !  soon  you  shall  plunge 
Your  burning  nostril  to  the  bit  in  snow; 

Soon  you  shall  rest  where  foam-white  waters  lunge 
From  clifF  to  cliff,  and  you  shall  know 

No  more  of  hunger  or  the  flame  of  sand 
Or  windless  desert's  heat !  " 


CHAPTER  III 

ON    THE   STAGE    ROAD 

ON  the  third  day  of  May,  after  a  whole  forenoon 
of  packing  and  "  fussing,"  we  made  our  start  and  passed 
successfully  over  some  fourteen  miles  of  the  road.  It 
was  warm  and  beautiful,  and  we  felt  greatly  relieved  to 
escape  from  the  dry  and  dusty  town  with  its  conscience 
less  horse  jockeys  and  its  bibulous  teamsters. 

As  we  mounted  the  white-hot  road  which  climbed 
sharply  to  the  northeast,  we  could  scarcely  restrain  a 
shout  of  exultation.  It  was  perfect  weather.  We  rode 
good  horses,  we  had  chosen  our  companions,  and  before 
us  lay  a  thousand  miles  of  trail,  and  the  mysterious  gold 
fields  of  the  far-off  Yukon.  For  two  hundred  and 
twenty  miles  the  road  ran  nearly  north  toward  the  town 
of  Quesnelle,  which  was  the  trading  camp  for  the 
Caribou  Mining  Company.  This  highway  was  filled 
with  heavy  teams,  and  stage  houses  were  frequent.  We 
might  have  gone  by  the  river  trail,  but  as  the  grass  was 
yet  young,  many  of  the  outfits  decided  to  keep  to  the 
stage  road. 

We  made  our  first  camp  beside  the  dusty  road  near 
the  stage  barn,  in  which  we  housed  our  horses.  A 
beautiful  stream  came  down  from  the  hills  near  us.  A 


22  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

little  farther  up  the  road  a  big  and  hairy  Californian, 
with  two  half-breed  assistants,  was  struggling  with 
twenty-five  wild  cayuses.  Two  or  three  campfires 
sparkled  near. 

There  was  a  vivid  charm  in  the  scene.  The  poplars 
were  in  tender  leaf.  The  moon,  round  and  brilliant,  was 
rising  just  above  the  mountains  to  the  east,  as  we  made 
our  bed  and  went  to  sleep  with  the  singing  of  the  stream 
in  our  ears. 

While  we  were  cooking  our  breakfast  the  next  morn 
ing  the  big  Californian  sauntered  by,  looking  at  our 
little  folding  stove,  our  tent,  our  new-fangled  pack- 
saddles,  and  our  luxurious  beds,  and  remarked  :  — 

"  I  reckon  you  fellers  are  just  out  on  a  kind  of  little 
hunting  trip." 

We  resented  the  tone  of  derision  in  his  voice,  and  I 
replied :  — 

"  We  are  bound  for  Teslin  Lake.  We  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you  any  time  during  the  coming  fall." 

He  never  caught  up  with  us  again. 

We  climbed  steadily  all  the  next  day  with  the  wind 
roaring  over  our  heads  in  the  pines.  It  grew  much 
colder  and  the  snow  covered  the  near-by  hills.  The  road 
was  full  of  trampers  on  their  way  to  the  mines  at 
Quesnelle  and  Stanley.  I  will  not  call  them  tramps^  for 
every  man  who  goes  afoot  in  this  land  is  entitled  to  a 
certain  measure  of  respect.  We  camped  at  night  just 
outside  the  little  village  called  Clinton,  which  was  not 
unlike  a  town  in  Vermont,  and  was  established  during 
the  Caribou  rush  in  '66.  It  lay  in  a  lovely  valley  beside 


On  the  Stage  Road  23 

a  swift,  clear  stream.  The  sward  was  deliciously  green 
where  we  set  our  tent. 

Thus  far  Burton  had  wrestled  rather  unsuccessfully 
with  the  crystallized  eggs  and  evaporated  potatoes  which 
made  up  a  part  of  our  outfit.  u  I  don't  seem  to  get  just 
the  right  twist  on  'em,"  he  said. 

"  You'll  have  plenty  of  chance  to  experiment,"  I  re 
marked.  However,  the  bacon  was  good  and  so  was  the 
graham  bread  which  he  turned  out  piping  hot  from  the 
little  oven  of  our  folding  stove. 

Leaving  Clinton  we  entered  upon  a  lonely  region,  a 
waste  of  wooded  ridges  breaking  illimitably  upon  the 
sky.  The  air  sharpened  as  we  rose,  till  it  seemed  like 
March  instead  of  April,  and  our  overcoats  were  grateful. 

Somewhere  near  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  as  we 
were  jogging  along,  I  saw  a  deer  standing  just  at  the 
edge  of  the  road  and  looking  across  it,  as  if  in  fear  of 
its  blazing  publicity.  It  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  he 
were  an  optical  illusion,  so  beautiful,  so  shapely,  and  so 
palpitant  was  he.  I  had  no  desire  to  shoot  him,  but,  turn 
ing  to  Burton,  called  in  a  low  voice,  "See  that  deer." 

He  replied,  "  Where  is  your  gun  ? " 

Now  under  my  knee  I  carried  a  new  rifle  with  a 
quantity  of  smokeless  cartridges,  steel-jacketed  and  soft- 
nosed,  and  yet  I  was  disposed  to  argue  the  matter.  "  See 
here,  Burton,  it  will  be  bloody  business  if  we  kill  that 
deer.  We  couldn't  eat  all  of  it ;  you  wouldn't  want  to 
skin  it ;  I  couldn't.  You'd  get  your  hands  all  bloody 
and  the  memory  of  that  beautiful  creature  would  not  be 
pleasant.  Therefore  I  stand  for  letting  him  go." 


24  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Burton  looked  thoughtful.  "  Well,  we  might  sell  it 
or  give  it  away." 

Meanwhile  the  deer  saw  us,  but  seemed  not  to  be  ap 
prehensive.  Perhaps  it  was  a  thought-reading  deer,  and 
knew  that  we  meant  it  no  harm.  As  Burton  spoke,  it 
turned,  silent  as  a  shadow,  and  running  to  the  crest 
of  the  hill  stood  for  a  moment  outlined  like  a  figure 
of  bronze  against  the  sky,  then  disappeared  into  the 
forest.  He  was  so  much  a  part  of  nature  that  the  horses 
gave  no  sign  of  having  seen  him  at  all. 

At  a  point  a  few  miles  beyond  Clinton  most  of  the 
pack  trains  turned  sharply  to  the  left  to  the  Fraser  River, 
where  the  grass  was  reported  to  be  much  better.  We 
determined  to  continue  on  the  stage  road,  however,  and 
thereafter  met  but  few  outfits.  The  road  was  by  no 
means  empty,  however.  We  met,  from  time  to  time, 
great  blue  or  red  wagons  drawn  by  four  or  six  horses, 
moving  with  pleasant  jangle  of  bells  and  the  crack  of 
great  whips.  The  drivers  looked  down  at  us  curiously 
and  somewhat  haughtily  from  their  high  seats,  as  if  to 
say,  "  We  know  where  we  are  going  —  do  you  know  as 
much?" 

The  landscape  grew  ever  wilder,  and  the  foliage  each 
day  spring-like.  We  were  on  a  high  hilly  plateau  be 
tween  Hat  Creek  and  the  valley  of  Lake  La  Hache. 
We  passed  lakes  surrounded  by  ghostly  dead  trees,  which 
looked  as  though  the  water  had  poisoned  them.  There 
were  no  ranches  of  any  extent  on  these  hills.  The  trail 
continued  to  be  filled  with  tramping  miners ;  several 
seemed  to  be  without  bedding  or  food.  Some  drove  little 


On  the  Stage  Road  25 

pack  animals  laden  with  blankets,  and  all  walked  like 
fiends,  pressing  forward  doggedly,  hour  after  hour.  Many 
of  them  were  Italians,  and  one  group  which  we  overtook 
went  along  killing  robins  for  food.  They  were  a  merry 
and  dramatic  lot,  making  the  silent  forests  echo  with  their 
chatter. 

I  headed  my  train  on  Ladrone,  who  led  the  way  with 
a  fine  stately  tread,  his  deep  brown  eyes  alight  with  in 
telligence,  his  sensitive  ears  attentive  to  every  word. 
He  had  impressed  me  already  by  his  learning  and  gentle 
ness,  but  when  one  of  my  packhorses  ran  around  him, 
entangling  me  in  the  lead  rope,  pulling  me  to  the  ground, 
the  final  test  of  his  quality  came.  I  expected  to  be 
kicked  into  shreds.  But  Ladrone  stopped  instantly,  and 
looking  down  at  me  inquiringly,  waited  for  me  to  scram 
ble  out  from  beneath  his  feet  and  drag  the  saddle  up  to 
its  place. 

With  heart  filled  with  gratitude,  I  patted  him  on  the 
nose,  and  said,  "  Old  boy,  if  you  carry  me  through  to 
Teslin  Lake,  I  will  take  care  of  you  for  the  rest  of  your 
days." 

At  about  noon  the  next  day  we  came  down  off  the 
high  plateau,  with  its  cold  and  snow,  and  camped  in  a 
sunny  sward  near  a  splendid  ranch  where  lambs  were  at 
play  on  the  green  grass.  Blackbirds  were  calling,  and 
we  heard  our  first  crane  bugling  high  in  the  sky.  From 
the  loneliness  and  desolation  of  the  high  country,  with 
its  sparse  road  houses,  we  were  now  surrounded  by 
sunny  fields  mellow  with  thirty  seasons'  ploughing. 

The  ride  was  very  beautiful.     Just  the  sort  of  thing 


26  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

we  had  been  hoping  for.  All  day  we  skirted  fine  lakes 
with  grassy  shores.  Cranes,  ducks,  and  geese  filled  every 
pond,  the  voice  of  spring  in  their  brazen  throats. 

Once  a  large  flight  of  crane  went  sweeping  by  high 
in  the  sky,  a  royal,  swift  scythe  reaping  the  clouds.  I 
called  to  them  in  their  own  tongue,  and  they  answered. 
I  called  again  and  again,  and  they  began  to  waver  and 
talk  among  themselves ;  and  at  last,  having  decided  that 
this  voice  from  below  should  be  heeded,  they  broke 
rank  and  commenced  sweeping  round  and  round  in  great 
circles,  seeking  the  lost  one  whose  cry  rose  from  afar. 
Baffled  and  angered,  they  rearranged  themselves  at  last 
in  long  regular  lines,  and  swept  on  into  the  north. 

We  camped  on  this,  the  sixth  day,  beside  a  fine  stream 
which  came  from  a  lake,  and  here  we  encountered  our 
first  mosquitoes.  Big,  black  fellows  they  were,  with  a 
lazy,  droning  sound  quite  different  from  any  I  had  ever 
heard.  However,  they  froze  up  early  and  did  not 
bother  us  very  much. 

At  the  one  hundred  and  fifty-nine  mile  house,  which 
was  a  stage  tavern,  we  began  to  hear  other  bogie  stories 
of  the  trail.  We  were  assured  that  horses  were  often 
poisoned  by  eating  a  certain  plant,  and  that  the  mud  and 
streams  were  terrible.  Flies  were  a  never  ending  tor 
ment.  All  these  I  regarded  as  the  croakings  of  men 
who  had  never  had  courage  to  go  over  the  trail,  and 
who  exaggerated  the  accounts  they  had  heard  from 
others. 

We  were  jogging  along  now  some  fifteen  or  twenty 
miles  a  day,  thoroughly  enjoying  the  trip.  The  sky 


On  the  Stage  Road  27 

was  radiant,  the  aspens  were  putting  forth  transparent 
yellow  leaves.  On  the  grassy  slopes  some  splendid  yel 
low  flowers  quite  new  to  me  waved  in  the  warm  but 
strong  breeze.  On  the  ninth  day  we  reached  Soda 
Creek,  which  is  situated  on  the  Fraser  River,  at  a  point 
where  the  muddy  stream  is  deep  sunk  in  the  wooded 
hills. 

The  town  was  a  single  row  of  ramshackle  buildings, 
not  unlike  a  small  Missouri  River  town.  The  citizens, 
so  far  as  visible,  formed  a  queer  collection  of  old  men 
addicted  to  rum.  They  all  came  out  to  admire  Ladrone 
and  to  criticise  my  pack-saddle,  and  as  they  stood  about 
spitting  and  giving  wise  instances,  they  reminded  me  of 
the  Jurors  in  Mark  Twain's  "  Puddin  Head  Wilson." 

One  old  man  tottered  up  to  my  side  to  inquire,  u  Cap, 
where  you  going  ?  " 

u  To  Teslin  Lake,"  I  replied. 

"  Good  Lord,  think  of  it,"  said  he.  "  Do  you  ever 
expect  to  get  there  ?  It  is  a  terrible  trip,  my  son,  a 
terrible  trip." 

At  this  point  a  large  number  of  the  outfits  crossed  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river  and  took  the  trail  which 
kept  up  the  west  bank  of  the  river.  We,  however, 
kept  the  stage  road  which  ran  on  the  high  ground  of  the 
eastern  bank,  forming  a  most  beautiful  drive.  The  river 
was  in  full  view  all  the  time,  with  endless  vista  of  blue 
hills  above  and  the  shimmering  water  with  radiant 
foliage  below. 

Aside  from  the  stage  road  and  some  few  ranches  on 
the  river  bottom,  we  were  now  in  the  wilderness.  On 


28  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

our  right  rolled  a  wide  wild  sea  of  hills  and  forests, 
breaking  at  last  on  the  great  gold  range.  To  the  west, 
a  still  wilder  country  reaching  to  the  impassable  east 
range.  On  this,  our  eighth  day  out,  we  had  our  second 
sight  of  big  game.  In  the  night  I  was  awakened  by 
Burton,  calling  in  excited  whisper,  "There's  a  bear 
outside." 

It  was  cold,  I  was  sleepy,  my  bed  was  very  comfort 
able,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed.  I  merely 
growled,  "  Let  him  alone." 

But  Burton,  putting  his  head  out  of  the  door  of  the 
tent,  grew  still  more  interested.  u  There  is  a  bear  out 
there  eating  those  mutton  bones.  Where's  the  gun  ?  " 

I  was  nearly  sinking  off  to  sleep  once  more  and  I 
muttered,  "  Don't  bother  me ;  the  gun  is  in  the  corner 
of  the  tent."  Burton  began  snapping  the  lever  of  the 
gun  impatiently  and  whispering  something  about  not 
being  able  to  put  the  cartridge  in.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  the  old-fashioned  Winchester,  but  had  not 
tried  these. 

"  Put  it  right  in  the  top,"  I  wearily  said, "  put  it  right 
in  the  top." 

"  I  have,"  he  replied ;  "  but  I  can't  get  it  in  or  out !  " 

Meanwhile  I  had  become  sufficiently  awake  to  take  a 
mild  interest  in  the  matter.  I  rose  and  looked  out.  As 
I  saw  a  long,  black,  lean  creature  muzzling  at  something 
on  the  ground,  I  began  to  get  excited  myself. 

"  I  guess  we  better  let  him  go,  hadn't  we  ? "  said 
Burton. 

"  Well,  yes,  as  the  cartridge  is  stuck  in  the  gun ;  and 


On  the  Stage  Road  29 

so  long  as  he  lets  us  alone  I  think  we  had  better  let  him 
alone,  especially  as  his  hide  is  worth  nothing  at  this 
season  of  the  year,  and  he  is  too  thin  to  make  steak." 

The  situation  was  getting  comic,  but  probably  it  is 
well  that  the  cartridge  failed  to  go  in.  Burton  stuck 
his  head  out  of  the  tent,  gave  a  sharp  yell,  and  the  huge 
creature  vanished  in  the  dark  of  the  forest.  The  whole 
adventure  came  about  naturally.  The  smell  of  our  fry 
ing  meat  had  gone  far  up  over  the  hills  to  our  right  and 
off  into  the  great  wilderness,  alluring  this  lean  hungry 
beast  out  of  his  den.  Doubtless  if  Burton  had  been 
able  to  fire  a  shot  into  his  woolly  hide,  we  should  have 
had  a  rare  "  mix  up  "  of  bear,  tent,  men,  mattresses,  and 
blankets. 

Mosquitoes  increased,  and,  strange  to  say,  they  seemed 
to  like  the  shade.  They  were  all  of  the  big,  black,  lazy 
variety.  We  came  upon  flights  of  humming-birds.  I 
was  rather  tired  of  the  saddle,  and  of  the  slow  jog,  jog, 
jog.  But  at  last  there  came  an  hour  which  made  the 
trouble  worth  while.  When  our  camp  was  set,  our  fire 
lighted,  our  supper  eaten,  and  we  could  stretch  out  and 
watch  the  sun  go  down  over  the  hills  beyond  the  river, 
then  the  day  seemed  well  spent.  At  such  an  hour  we 
grew  reminiscent  of  old  days,  and  out  of  our  talk  an 
occasional  verse  naturally  rose. 


MOMENTOUS    HOUR 

A  coyote  wailing  in  the  yellow  dawn, 

A  mountain  land  that  stretches  on  and  on, 

And  ceases  not  till  in  the  skies 

Vast  peaks  of  rosy  snow  arise, 

Like  walls  of  plainsman's  paradise. 

I  cannot  tell  why  this  is  so; 
I  cannot  say,  I  do  not  know 
Why  wind  and  wolf  and  yellow  sky, 
And  grassy  mesa,  square  and  high, 
Possess  such  power  to  satisfy. 

But  so  it  is.     Deep  in  the  grass 
I  lie  and  hear  the  winds'  feet  pass ; 
And  all  forgot  is  maid  and  man, 
And  hope  and  set  ambitious  plan 
Are  lost  as  though  they  ne'er  began. 


A    WISH 

All  day  and  many  days  I  rode, 
My  horse's  head  set  toward  the  sea; 
And  as  I  rode  a  longing  came  to  me 
That  I  might  keep  the  sunset  road, 
Riding  my  horse  right  on  and  on, 
O'ertake  the  day  still  lagging  at  the  west, 
And  so  reach  boyhood  from  the  dawn, 
And  be  with  all  the  days  at  rest. 

For  then  the  odor  of  the  growing  wheat, 
The  flare  of  sumach  on  the  hills, 
The  touch  of  grasses  to  my  feet 
Would  cure  my  brain  of  all  its  ills, — 
Would  fill  my  heart  so  full  of  joy 
That  no  stern  lines  could  fret  my  face.  , 
There  would  I  be  forever  boy, 
Lit  by  the  sky's  unfailing  grace. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN    CAMP    AT    QUESNELLE 

WE  came  into  Quesnelle  about  three  o'clock  of  the 
eleventh  day  out.  From  a  high  point  which  overlooked 
the  two  rivers,  we  could  see  great  ridges  rolling  in 
waves  of  deep  blue  against  the  sky  to  the  northwest. 
Over  these  our  slender  little  trail  ran.  The  wind  was 
in  the  south,  roaring  up  the  river,  and  green  grass  was 
springing  on  the  slopes. 

Quesnelle  we  found  to  be  a  little  town  on  a  high, 
smooth  slope  above  the  Fraser.  We  overtook  many 
prospectors  like  ourselves  camped  on  the  river  bank 
waiting  to  cross. 

Here  also  telegraph  bulletins  concerning  the  Spanish 
war,  dated  London,  Hong  Kong,  and  Madrid,  hung  on 
the  walls  of  the  post-office.  They  were  very  brief  and 
left  plenty  of  room  for  imagination  and  discussion. 

Here  I  took  a  pony  and  a  dog-cart  and  jogged  away 
toward  the  long-famous  Caribou  Mining  district  next 
day,  for  the  purpose  of  inspecting  a  mine  belonging  to 
some  friends  of  mine.  The  ride  was  very  desolate  and 
lonely,  a  steady  climb  all  the  way,  through  fire-devastated 
forests,  toward  the  great  peaks.  Snow  lay  in  the  road 
side  ditches.  Butterflies  were  fluttering  about,  and  in 
the  high  hills  I  saw  many  toads  crawling  over  the 
D  33 


34  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

snowbanks,  a  singular  sight  to  me.  They  were  silent, 
perhaps  from  cold. 

Strange  to  say,  this  ride  called  up  in  my  mind  visions 
of  the  hot  sands,  and  the  sun-lit  buttes  and  valleys  of 
Arizona  and  Montana,  and  I  wrote  several  verses  as 
I  jogged  along  in  the  pony-cart. 

When  I  returned  to  camp  two  days  later,  I  found 
Burton  ready  and  eager  to  move.  The  town  swarmed 
with  goldseekers  pausing  here  to  rest  and  fill  their 
parfleches.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  others 
could  be  seen  in  camp,  or  already  moving  out  over  the 
trail,  which  left  the  river  and  climbed  at  once  into  the 
high  ridges  dark  with  pines  in  the  west. 

As  I  sat  with  my  partner  at  night  talking  of  the  start 
the  next  day,  I  began  to  feel  not  a  fear  but  a  certain 
respect  for  that  narrow  little  path  which  was  not  an 
arm's  span  in  width,  but  which  was  nearly  eight  hundred 
miles  in  length.  "  From  this  point,  Burton,  it  is  busi 
ness.  Our  practice  march  is  finished." 

The  stories  of  flies  and  mosquitoes  gave  me  more 
trouble  than  anything  else,  but  a  surveyor  who  had  had 
much  experience  in  this  Northwestern  country  recom 
mended  the  use  of  oil  of  pennyroyal,  mixed  with  lard 
or  vaseline.  "  It  will  keep  the  mosquitoes  and  most  of 
the  flies  away,"  he  said.  "  I  know,  for  I  have  tried  it. 
You  can't  wear  a  net,  at  least  I  never  could.  It  is  too 
warm,  and  then  it  is  always  in  your  way.  You  are  in 
no  danger  from  beasts,  but  you  will  curse  the  day  you 
set  out  on  this  trail  on  account  of  the  insects.  It  is  the 
worst  mosquito  country  in  the  world." 


THE    GIFT    OF   WATER 

"  Is  water  nigh  ?  " 

The  plainsmen  cry, 
As  they  meet  and  pass  in  the  desert  grass. 

With  finger  tip 

Across  the  lip 
I  ask  the  sombre  Navajo. 
The  brown  man  smiles  and  answers  "  Sho  !  " 1 
With  fingers  high,  he  signs  the  miles 

To  the  desert  spring, 
And  so  we  pass  in  the  dry  dead  grass, 

Brothers  in  bond  of  the  water's  ring. 

MOUNTING 

I  mount  and  mount  toward  the  sky, 

The  eagle's  heart  is  mine, 

I  ride  to  put  the  clouds  a-by 

Where  silver  lakelets  shine. 

The  roaring  streams  wax  white  with  snow, 

The  eagle's  nest  draws  near, 

The  blue  sky  widens,  hid  peaks  glow, 

The  air  is  frosty  clear. 

And  so  from  cliff  to  cliff  I  rise, 

The  eagle's  heart  is  mine ; 

Above  me  ever  broadning  skies, 

Below  the  rivers  shine.     . 

1  Listen.     Your  attention. 
35 


THE    EAGLE   TRAIL 

From  rock-built  nest, 

The  mother  eagle,  with  a  threatning  tongue, 

Utters  a  warning  scream.     Her  shrill  voice  ring 

Wild  as  the  snow-topped  crags  she  sits  among ; 

While  hovering  with  her  quivering  wings 

Her  hungry  brood,  with  eyes  ablaze 

She  watches  every  shadow.     The  water  calls 

Far,  far  below.     The  sun's  red  rays 

Ascend  the  icy,  iron  walls, 

And  leap  beyond  the  mountains  in  the  west, 

And  over  the  trail  and  the  eagle's  nest 

The  clear  night  falls. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    PSYCHOLOGY    OF    THE    BLUE    RAT 

Camp  Twelve 

NEXT  morning  as  we  took  the  boat  —  which  was  filled 
with  horses  wild  and  restless  —  I  had  a  moment  of  exul 
tation  to  think  we  had  left  the  way  of  tin  cans  and 
whiskey  bottles,  and  were  now  about  to  enter  upon 
the  actual  trail.  The  horses  gave  us  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  on  the  boat,  but  we  managed  to  get  across  safely 
without  damage  to  any  part  of  our  outfit. 

Here  began  our  acquaintance  with  the  Blue  Rat. 
It  had  become  evident  to  me  during  our  stay  in  Ques- 
nelle  that  we  needed  one  more  horse  to  make  sure  of 
having  provisions  sufficient  to  carry  us  over  the  three 
hundred  and  sixty  miles  which  lay  between  the  Fraser 
and  our  next  eating-place  on  the  Skeena.  Horses,  how 
ever,  were  very  scarce,  and  it  was  not  until  late  in  the 
day  that  we  heard  of  a  man  who  had  a  pony  to  sell. 
The  name  of  this  man  was  Dippy. 

He  was  a  German,  and  had  a  hare-lip  and  a  most 
seductive  gentleness  of  voice.  I  gladly  make  him  his 
torical.  He  sold  me  the  Blue  Rat,  and  gave  me  a 
chance  to  study  a  new  type  of  horse. 

37 


38  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Herr  Dippy  was  not  a  Washington  Irving  sort  of 
Dutchman ;  he  conformed  rather  to  the  modern  New 
York  tradesman.  He  was  small,  candid,  and  smooth, 
very  smooth,  of  speech.  He  said :  "  Yes,  the  pony  is 
gentle.  He  can  be  rode  or  packed,  but  you  better  lead 
him  for  a  day  or  two  till  he  gets  quiet." 

I  had  not  seen  the  pony,  but  my  partner  had  crossed 
to  the  west  side  of  the  Fraser  River,  and  had  reported 
him  to  be  a  "  nice  little  pony,  round  and  fat  and  gentle." 
On  that  I  had  rested.  Mr.  Dippy  joined  us  at  the  ferry 
and  waited  around  to  finish  the  trade.  I  presumed  he 
intended  to  cross  and  deliver  the  pony,  which  was  in  a 
corral  on  the  west  side,  but  he  lisped  out  a  hurried  excuse. 
"The  ferry  is  not  coming  back  for  to-day  and  so  — " 

Well,  I  paid  him  the  money  on  the  strength  of  my 
side  partner's  report ;  besides,  it  was  Hobson's  choice. 

Mr.  Dippy  took  the  twenty-five  dollars  eagerly  and 
vanished  into  obscurity.  We  passed  to  the  wild  side  of 
the  Fraser  and  entered  upon  a  long  and  intimate  study 
of  the  Blue  Rat.  He  shucked  out  of  the  log  stable  a 
smooth,  round,  lithe-bodied  little  cayuse  of  a  blue-gray 
color.  He  looked  like  a  child's  toy,  but  seemed  sturdy 
and  of  good  condition.  His  foretop  was  "banged," 
and  he  had  the  air  of  a  mischievous,  resolute  boy.  His 
eyes  were  big  and  black,  and  he  studied  us  with  tranquil 
but  inquiring  gaze  as  we  put  the  pack-saddle  on  him. 
He  was  very  small. 

"  He's  not  large,  but  he's  a  gentle  little  chap,"  said 
I,  to  ease  my  partner  of  his  dismay  over  the  pony's  sur 
prising  smallness. 


The  Psychology  of  the  Blue  Rat         39 

<c  I  believe  he  shrunk  during  the  night,"  replied  my 
partner.  "  He  seemed  two  sizes  bigger  yesterday." 

We  packed  him  with  one  hundred  pounds  of  our 
food  and  lashed  it  all  on  with  rope,  while  the  pony  dozed 
peacefully.  Once  or  twice  I  thought  I  saw  his  ears 
cross ;  one  laid  back,  the  other  set  forward,  —  bad 
signs,  —  but  it  was  done  so  quickly  I  could  not  be  sure 
of  it. 

We  packed  the  other  horses  while  the  blue  pony 
stood  resting  one  hind  leg,  his  eyes  dreaming. 

I  flung  the  canvas  cover  over  the  bay  packhorse.  .  .  . 
Something  took  place.  I  heard  a  bang,  a  clatter,  a  rat 
tling  of  hoofs.  I  peered  around  the  bay  and  saw  the 
blue  pony  performing  some  of  the  most  finished,  vig 
orous,  and  varied  bucking  it  has  ever  been  given  me  to 
witness.  He  all  but  threw  somersaults.  He  stood  on 
his  upper  lip.  He  humped  up  his  back  till  he  looked 
like  a  lean  cat  on  a  graveyard  fence.  He  stood  on  his 
toe  calks  and  spun  like  a  weather-vane  on  a  livery 
stable,  and  when  the  pack  exploded  and  the  saddle 
slipped  under  his  belly,  he  kicked  it  to  pieces  by  using 
both  hind  hoofs  as  featly  as  a  man  would  stroke  his 
beard. 

After  calming  the  other  horses,  I  faced  my  partner 
solemnly. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  partner,  where  did  you  get  that 
nice,  quiet,  little  blue  pony  of  yours  ?  " 

Partner  smiled  sheepishly.  "The  little  divil.  Buf 
falo  Bill  ought  to  have  that  pony." 

u  Well,  now,"  said  I,  restraining  my  laughter,  "  the 


40  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

thing  to  do  is  to  put  that  pack  on  so  that  it  will  stay. 
That  pony  will  try  the  same  thing  again,  sure." 

We  packed  him  again  with  great  care.  His  big,  in 
nocent  black  eyes  shining  under  his  bang  were  a  little 
more  alert,  but  they  showed  neither  fear  nor  rage.  We 
roped  him  in  every  conceivable  way,  and  at  last  stood 
clear  and  dared  him  to  do  his  prettiest. 

He  did  it.  All  that  had  gone  before  was  merely  pre 
paratory,  a  blood-warming,  so  to  say ;  the  real  thing 
now  took  place.  He  stood  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  shot 
into  the  air,  alighting  on  his  four  feet  as  if  to  pierce  the 
earth.  He  whirled  like  a  howling  dervish,  grunting, 
snorting  —  unseeing,  and  almost  unseen  in  a  nimbus  of 
dust,  strap  ends,  and  flying  pine  needles.  His  whirling 
undid  him.  We  seized  the  rope,  and  just  as  the  pack 
again  slid  under  his  feet  we  set  shoulder  to  the  rope  and 
threw  him.  He  came  to  earth  with  a  thud,  his  legs 
whirling  uselessly  in  the  air.  He  resembled  a  beetle  in 
molasses.  We  sat  upon  his  head  and  discussed  him. 

u  He  is  a  wonder,"  said  my  partner. 

We  packed  him  again  with  infinite  pains,  and  when 
he  began  bucking  we  threw  him  again  and  tried  to  kill 
him.  We  were  getting  irritated.  We  threw  him  hard, 
and  drew  his  hind  legs  up  to  his  head  till  he  grunted. 
When  he  was  permitted  to  rise,  he  looked  meek  and 
small  and  tired  and  we  were  both  deeply  remorseful. 
We  rearranged  the  pack — it  was  some  encouragement 
to  know  he  had  not  bucked  it  entirely  off — and  by 
blindfolding  him  we  got  him  started  on  the  trail  behind 
the  train. 


The  Psychology  of  the  Blue  Rat         41 

"  I  suppose  that  simple-hearted  Dutchman  is  gloating 
over  us  from  across  the  river,'  said  I  to  partner ;  "  but 
no  matter,  we  are  victorious." 

I  was  now  quite  absorbed  in  a  study  of  the  blue 
pony's  psychology.  He  was  a  new  type  of  mean  pony. 
His  eye  did  not  roll  nor  his  ears  fall  back.  He  seemed 
neither  scared  nor  angry.  He  still  looked  like  a  roguish, 
determined  boy.  He  was  alert,  watchful,  but  not  vicious. 
He  went  off — precisely  like  one  of  those  mechani 
cal  mice  or  turtles  which  sidewalk  venders  operate. 
Once  started,  he  could  not  stop  till  he  ran  down.  He 
seemed  not  to  take  our  stern  measures  in  bad  part.  He 
regarded  it  as  a  fair  contract,  apparently,  and  considered 
that  we  had  won.  True,  he  had  lost  both  hair  and  skin 
by  getting  tangled  in  the  rope,  but  he  laid  up  nothing 
against  us,  and,  as  he  followed  meekly  along  behind, 
partner  dared  to  say  :  — 

u  He's  all  right  now.  I  presume  he  has  been  run 
ning  out  all  winter  and  is  a  little  wild.  He's  satisfied 
now.  We'll  have  no  more  trouble  with  him." 

Every  time  I  looked  back  at  the  poor,  humbled  little 
chap,  my  heart  tingled  with  pity  and  remorse.  "We 
were  too  rough,"  I  said.  u  We  must  be  more  gentle." 

"Yes,  he's  nervous  and  scary ;  we  must  be  careful  not 
to  give  him  a  sudden  start.  I'll  lead  him  for  a  while." 

An  hour  later,  as  we  were  going  down  a  steep  and 
slippery  hill,  the  Rat  saw  his  chance.  He  passed  into 
another  spasm,  opening  and  shutting  like  a  self-acting 
jack-knife.  He  bounded  into  the  midst  of  the  peaceful 
horses,  scattering  them  to  right  and  to  left  in  terror. 


42  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

He  turned  and  came  up  the  hill  to  get  another  start. 
Partner  took  a  turn  on  a  stump,  and  all  unmindful  of  it 
the  Rat  whirled  and  made  a  mighty  spring.  He  reached 
the  end  of  the  rope  and  his  hand-spring  became  a  vault 
ing  somersault.  He  lay,  unable  to  rise,  spatting  the 
wind,  breathing  heavily.  Such  annoying  energy  I  have 
never  seen.  We  were  now  mad,  muddy,  and  very 
resolute.  We  held  him  down  till  he  lay  quite  still. 
Any  well-considered,  properly  bred  animal  would  have 
been  ground  to  bone  dust  by  such  wondrous  acrobatic 
movements.  He  was  skinned  in  one  or  two  places,  the 
hair  was  scraped  from  his  nose,  his  tongue  bled,  but  all 
these  were  mere  scratches.  When  we  repacked  him  he 
walked  off  comparatively  unhurt. 


NOON    ON    THE    PLAIN 

The  horned  toad  creeping  along  the  sand, 

The  rattlesnake  asleep  beneath  the  sage, 

Have  now  a  subtle  fatal  charm. 

In  their  sultry  calm,  their  love  of  heat, 

I  read  once  more  the  burning  page 

Of  nature  under  cloudless  skies. 

O  pitiless  and  splendid  land ! 

Mine  eyelids  close,  my  lips  are  dry 

By  force  of  thy  hot  floods  of  light. 

Soundless  as  oil  the  wind  flows  'by, 

Mine  aching  brain  cries  out  for  night ! 


43 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    BEGINNING   OF   THE   LONG   TRAIL 

As  we  left  the  bank  of  the  Fraser  River  we  put  all 
wheel  tracks  behind.  The  trail  turned  to  the  west  and 
began  to  climb,  following  an  old  swath  which  had  been 
cut  into  the  black  pines  by  an  adventurous  telegraph 
company  in  1865.  Immense  sums  of  money  were  put 
into  this  venture  by  men  who  believed  the  ocean  cable 
could  not  be  laid.  The  work  was  stopped  midway  by 
the  success  of  Field's  wonderful  plan,  and  all  along  the 
roadway  the  rusted  and  twisted  wire  lay  in  testimony 
of  the  seriousness  of  the  original  design. 

The  trail  was  a  white  man's  road.  It  lacked  grace 
and  charm.  It  cut  uselessly  over  hills  and  plunged 
senselessly  into  ravines.  It  was  an  irritation  to  all  of 
us  who  knew  the  easy  swing,  the  circumspection,  and 
the  labor-saving  devices  of  an  Indian  trail.  The  tele 
graph  line  was  laid  by  compass,  not  by  the  stars  and 
the  peaks ;  it  evaded  nothing ;  it  saved  distance,  not 
labor. 

My  feeling  of  respect  deepened  into  awe  as  we  began 
to  climb  the  great  wooded  divide  which  lies  between 
the  Fraser  and  the  Blackwater.  The  wild  forest  set 
tled  around  us,  grim,  stern,  and  forbidding.  We  were 

45 


46  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

done  with  civilization.  Everything  that  was  required 
for  a  home  in  the  cold  and  in  the  heat  was  bound  upon 
our  five  horses.  We  must  carry  bed,  board,  roof,  food, 
and  medical  stores,  over  three  hundred  and  sixty  miles 
of  trail,  through  all  that  might  intervene  of  flood  and 
forest. 

This  feeling  of  awe  was  emphasized  by  the  coming 
on  of  the  storm  in  which  we  camped  that  night.  We 
were  forced  to  keep  going  until  late  in  order  to  obtain 
feed,  and  to  hustle  in  order  to  get  everything  under 
cover  before  the  rain  began  to  fall.  We  were  only 
twelve  miles  on  our  way,  but  being  wet  and  cold  and 
hungry,  we  enjoyed  the  full  sense  of  being  in  the  wil 
derness.  However,  the  robins  sang  from  the  damp 
woods  and  the  loons  laughed  from  hidden  lakes. 

It  rained  all  night,  and  in  the  morning  we  were 
forced  to  get  out  in  a  cold,  wet  dawn.  It  was  a  grim 
start,  dismal  and  portentous,  bringing  the  realities  of 
the  trail  very  close  to  us.  While  I  rustled  the  horses 
out  of  the  wet  bush,  partner  stirred  up  a  capital  break 
fast  of  bacon,  evaporated  potatoes,  crystallized  eggs,  and 
graham  bread.  He  had  discovered  at  last  the  exact 
amount  of  water  to  use  in  cooking  these  "  vegetables," 
and  they  were  very  good.  The  potatoes  tasted  not 
unlike  mashed  potatoes,  aud  together  with  the  eggs 
made  a  very  savory  and  wholesome  dish.  With  a  cup 
of  strong  coffee  and  some  hot  graham  gems  we  got  off 
in  very  good  spirits  indeed. 

It  continued  muddy,  wet,  and  cold.  I  walked  most 
of  the  day,  leading  my  horse,  upon  whom  I  had  packed 


The  Beginning  of  the  Long  Trail        47 

a  part  of  the  outfit  to  relieve  the  other  horses.  There 
was  no  fun  in  the  day,  only  worry  and  trouble.  My 
feet  were  wet,  my  joints  stiff,  and  my  brain  weary  of 
the  monotonous  black,  pine  forest. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  work  on  the  trail,  —  cooking, 
care  of  the  horses,  together  with  almost  ceaseless  pack 
ing  and  unpacking,  and  the  bother  of  keeping  the  pack- 
horses  out  of  the  mud.  We  were  busy  from  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning  until  nine  at  night.  There 
were  other  outfits  on  the  trail  having  a  full  ton  of 
supplies,  and  this  great  weight  had  to  be  handled  four 
times  a  day.  In  our  case  the  toil  was  much  less,  but 
it  was  only  by  snatching  time  from  my  partner  that 
I  was  able  to  work  on  my  notes  and  keep  my  diary. 
Had  the  land  been  less  empty  of  game  and  richer  in 
color,  I  should  not  have  minded  the  toil  and  care  taking. 
As  it  was,  we  were  all  looking  forward  to  the  beautiful 
lake  country  which  we  were  told  lay  just  beyond  the 
Blackwater. 

One  tremendous  fact  soon  impressed  me.  There 
were  no  returning  footsteps  on  this  trail.  All  toes 
pointed  in  one  way,  toward  the  golden  North.  No 
man  knew  more  than  his  neighbor  the  character  of  the 
land  which  lay  before  us. 

The  life  of  each  outfit  was  practically  the  same.  At 
about  4.30  in  the  morning  the  campers  awoke.  The 
click-clack  of  axes  began,  and  slender  columns  of  pale 
blue  smoke  stole  softly  into  the  air.  Then  followed 
the  noisy  rustling  of  the  horses  by  those  set  aside  for 
that  duty.  By  the  time  the  horses  were  "  cussed  into 


48  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

camp,"  the  coffee  was  hot,  and  the  bacon  and  beans 
ready  to  be  eaten.  A  race  in  packing  took  place  to  see 
who  should  pull  out  first.  At  about  seven  o'clock  in 
the  morning  the  outfits  began  to  move.  But  here  there 
was  a  difference  of  method.  Most  of  them  travelled 
for  six  or  seven  hours  without  unpacking,  whereas  our 
plan  was  to  travel  for  four  hours,  rest  from  twelve  to 
three,  and  pack  up  and  travel  four  hours  more.  This 
difference  in  method  resulted  in  our  passing  outfit  after 
outfit  who  were  unable  to  make  the  same  distances  by 
their  one  march. 

We  went  to  bed  with  the  robins  and  found  it  no 
hardship  to  rise  with  the  sparrows.  As  Burton  got  the 
fire  going,  I  dressed  and  went  out  to  see  if  all  the 
horses  were  in  the  bunch,  and  edged  them  along  toward 
the  camp.  I  then  packed  up  the  goods,  struck  the 
tent  and  folded  it,  and  had  everything  ready  to  sling  on 
the  horses  by  the  time  breakfast  was  ready. 

With  my  rifle  under  my  knee,  my  rain  coat  rolled 
behind  my  saddle,  my  camera  dangling  handily,  my 
rope  coiled  and  lashed,  I  called  out,  "  Are  we  all  set  ? " 

"Oh,  I  guess  so,"  Burton  invariably  replied. 

With  a  last  look  at  the  camping  ground  to  see  that 
nothing  of  value  was  left,  we  called  in  exactly  the  same 
way  each  time,  "  Hike,  boys,  hike,  hike."  (Hy-ak : 
Chinook  for  "  hurry  up.")  It  was  a  fine  thing,  and  it 
never  failed  to  touch  me,  to  see  them  fall  in,  one  by 
one.  The  "  Ewe-neck "  just  behind  Ladrone,  after 
him  "  Old  Bill,"  and  behind  him,  groaning  and  taking 
on  as  if  in  great  pain,  "  Major  Grunt,"  while  at  the 


The  Beginning  of  the  Long  Trail        49 

rear,  with  sharp  outcry,  came  Burton  riding  the  blue 
pony,  who  was  quite  content,  as  we  soon  learned,  to 
carry  a  man  weighing  seventy  pounds  more  than  his 
pack.  He  considered  himself  a  saddle  horse,  not  a 
pack  animal. 

It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  keep  a  pack  train  like 
this  running.  As  the  horses  became  tired  of  the  saddle, 
two  of  them  were  disposed  to  run  off  into  the  brush  in  an 
attempt  to  scrape  their  load  from  their  backs.  Others 
fell  to  feeding.  Sometimes  Bill  would  attempt  to  pass 
the  bay  in  order  to  walk  next  Ladrone.  Then  they 
would  scrouge  against  each  other  like  a  couple  of  country 
schoolboys,  to  see  who  should  get  ahead.  It  was  nec 
essary  to  watch  the  packs  with  worrysome  care  to  see 
that  nothing  came  loose,  to  keep  the  cinches  tight,  and 
to  be  sure  that  none  of  the  horses  were  being  galled  by 
their  burdens. 

We  travelled  for  the  most  part  alone  and  generally  in 
complete  silence,  for  I  was  too  far  in  advance  to  have 
any  conversation  with  my  partner. 

The  trail  continued  wet,  muddy,  and  full  of  slippery 
inclines,  but  we  camped  on  a  beautiful  spot  on  the  edge 
of  a  marshy  lake  two  or  three  miles  in  length.  As  we 
threw  up  our  tent  and  started  our  fire,  I  heard  two 
cranes  bugling  magnificently  from  across  the  marsh, 
and  with  my  field-glass  I  could  see  them  striding  along 
in  the  edge  of  the  water.  The  sun  was  getting  well 
toward  the  west.  All  around  stood  the  dark  and  mys 
terious  forest,  out  of  which  strange  noises  broke. 

In  answer  to  the  bugling  of  the  cranes,  loons  were 


50  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

wildly  calling,  a  flock  of  g'eese,  hidden  somewhere  under 
the  level  blaze  of  the  orange-colored  light  of  the  setting 
sun,  were  holding  clamorous  convention.  This  is  one 
of  the  compensating  moments  of  the  trail.  To  come 
out  of  a  gloomy  and  forbidding  wood  into  an  open  and 
grassy  bank,  to  see  the  sun  setting  across  the  marsh 
behind  the  most  splendid  blue  mountains,  makes  up  for 
many  weary  hours  of  toil. 

As  I  lay  down  to  sleep  I  heard  a  coyote  cry,  and  the 
loons  answered,  and  out  of  the  cold,  clear  night  the  splen 
did  voices  of  the  cranes  rang  triumphantly.  The  heavens 
were  made  as  brass  by  their  superb,  defiant  notes. 


THE    WHOOPING    CRANE 

At  sunset  from  the  shadowed  sedge 
Of  lonely  lake,  among  the  reeds, 

He  lifts  his  brazen-throated  call, 

And  the  listening  cat  with  teeth  at  edge 

With  famine  hears  and  heeds. 

"  Come  one,  come  all,  come  all,  come  all !  " 
Is  the  bird's  challenge  bravely  blown 
To  every  beast  the  woodlands  own. 

"My  legs  are  long,  my  wings  are  strong, 

I  wait  the  answer  to  my  threat" 
Echoing,  fearless,  triumphant,  the  cry 

Disperses  through  the  world,  and  yet 
Only  the  clamorous,  cloudless  sky 

And  the  wooded  mountains  make  reply. 


THE    LOON 

At  some  far  time 

This  water  sprite 
A  brother  of  the  coyote  must  have  been. 

For  when  the  sun  is  set, 

Forth  from  the  failing  light 

His  harsh  cries  fret 

The  silence  of  the  night, 
And  the  hid  wolf  answers  with  a  wailing  keen. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE    BLACKWATER    DIVIDE 

ABOUT  noon  the  next  day  we  suddenly  descended  to 
the  Blackwater,  a  swift  stream  which  had  been  newly 
bridged  by  those  ahead  of  us.  In  this  wild  land  streams 
were  our  only  objective  points ;  the  mountains  had  no 
names,  and  the  monotony  of  the  forest  produced  a  sin 
gular  effect  on  our  minds.  Our  journey  at  times  seemed 
a  sort  of  motionless  progression.  Once  our  tent  was 
set  and  our  baggage  arranged  about  us,  we  lost  all  sense 
of  having  moved  at  all. 

Immediately  after  leaving  the  Blackwater  bridge  we 
had  a  grateful  touch  of  an  Indian  trail.  The  telegraph 
route  kept  to  the  valley  flat,  but  an  old  trail  turned  to 
the  right  and  climbed  the  north  bank  by  an  easy  and 
graceful  grade  which  it  was  a  joy  to  follow.  The  top 
of  the  bench  was  wooded  and  grassy,  and  the  smooth 
brown  trail  wound  away  sinuous  as  a  serpent  under  the 
splendid  pine  trees.  For  more  than  three  hours  we 
strolled  along  this  bank  as  distinguished  as  those  who 
occupy  boxes  at  the  theatre.  Below  us  the  Blackwater 
looped  away  under  a  sunny  sky,  and  far  beyond,  enor 
mous  and  unnamed,  deep  blue  mountains  rose,  notching 
the  western  sky.  The  scene  was  so  exceedingly  rich 

53 


54  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

and  amiable  we  could  hardly  believe  it  to  be  without 
farms  and  villages,  yet  only  an  Indian  hut  or  two  gave 
indication  of  human  life. 

After  following  this  bank  for  a  few  miles,  we  turned 
to  the  right  and  began  to  climb  the  high  divide  which 
lies  between  the  Blackwater  and  the  Muddy,  both  of 
which  are  upper  waters  of  the  Fraser.  Like  all  the 
high  country  through  which  we  had  passed  this  ridge 
was  covered  with  a  monotonous  forest  of  small  black 
pines,  with  very  little  bird  or  animal  life  of  any  kind. 
By  contrast  the  valley  of  the  Blackwater  shone  in  our 
memory  like  a  jewel. 

After  a  hard  drive  we  camped  beside  a  small  creek, 
together  with  several  other  outfits.  One  of  them  be 
longed  to  a  doctor  from  the  Chilcoten  country.  He 
was  one  of  those  Englishmen  who  are  natural  plains 
men.  He  was  always  calm,  cheerful,  and  self-contained. 
He  took  all  worry  and  danger  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
did  not  attempt  to  carry  the  customs  of  a  London  hotel 
into  the  camp.  When  an  Englishman  has  this  temper, 
he  makes  one  of  the  best  campaigners  in  the  world. 

As  I  came  to  meet  the  other  men  on  the  trail,  I  found 
that  some  peculiar  circumstance  had  led  to  their  choice 
of  route.  The  doctor  had  a  ranch  in  the  valley  of  the 
Fraser.  One  of  "  the  Manchester  boys  "  had  a  cousin 
near  Soda  Creek.  u  Siwash  Charley  "  wished  to  prospect 
on  the  head-waters  of  the  Skeena ;  and  so  in  almost  every 
case  some  special  excuse  was  given.  When  the  truth 
was  known,  the  love  of  adventure  had  led  all  of  us  to 
take  the  telegraph  route.  Most  of  the  miners  argued 


The  Blackwater  Divide  55 

that  they  could  make  their  entrance  by  horse  as  cheaply, 
if  not  as  quickly,  as  by  boat.  For  the  most  part  they 
were  young,  hardy,  and  temperate  young  men  of  the 
middle  condition  of  American  life. 

One  of  the  Manchester  men  had  been  a  farmer  in 
Connecticut,  an  attendant  in  an  insane  asylum  in  Massa 
chusetts,  and  an  engineer.  He  was  fat  when  he  started, 
and  weighed  two  hundred  and  twenty  pounds.  By  the 
time  we  had  overtaken  him  his  trousers  had  begun  to 
flap  around  him.  He  was  known  as  "  Big  Bill."  His 
companion,  Frank,  was  a  sinewy  little  fellow  with  no 
extra  flesh  at  all,  —  an  alert,  cheery,  and  vociferous  boy, 
who  made  noise  enough  to  scare  all  the  game  out  of  the 
valley.  Neither  of  these  men  had  ever  saddled  a  horse 
before  reaching  the  Chilcoten,  but  they  developed  at  once 
into  skilful  packers  and  rugged  trailers,  though  they  still 
exposed  themselves  unnecessarily  in  order  to  show  that 
they  were  not  u  tenderfeet." 

"  Siwash  Charley  "  was  a  Montana  miner  who  spoke 
Chinook  fluently,  and  swore  in  splendid  rhythms  on  occa 
sion.  He  was  small,  alert,  seasoned  to  the  trail,  and 
capable  of  any  hardship.  "The  Man  from  Chihuahua" 
was  so  called  because  he  had  been  prospecting  in  Mexico. 
He  had  the  best  packhorses  on  the  trail,  and  cared  for 
them  like  a  mother.  He  was  small,  weazened,  hardy 
.as  oak,  inured  to  every  hardship,  and  very  wise  in  all 
things.  He  had  led  his  fine  little  train  of  horses  from 
Chihuahua  to  Seattle,  thence  to  the  Thompson  River, 
joining  us  at  Quesnelle.  He  was  the  typical  trailer. 
He  spoke  in  the  Missouri  fashion,  though  he  was  a  born 


56  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Californian.  His  partner  was  a  quiet  little  man  from 
Snohomish  flats,  in  Washington.  These  outfits  were 
typical  of  scores  of  others,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  they 
were  for  the  most  part  Americans,  the  group  of  Germans 
from  New  York  City  and  the  English  doctor  being  the 
exceptions. 

There  was  little  talk  among  us.  We  were  not  merely 
going  a  journey,  but  going  as  rapidly  as  was  prudent,  and 
there  was  close  attention  to  business.  There  was  some 
thing  morbidly  persistent  in  the  action  of  these  trains. 
They  pushed  on  resolutely,  grimly,  like  blind  worms  fol 
lowing  some  directing  force  from  within.  This  peculi 
arity  of  action  became  more  noticeable  day  by  day.  We 
were  not  on  the  trail,  after  all,  to  hunt,  or  fish,  or  sky 
lark.  We  had  set  our  eyes  on  a  distant  place,  and 
toward  it  our  feet  moved,  even  in  sleep. 

The  Muddy  River,  which  we  reached  late  in  the  after 
noon,  was  silent  as  oil  and  very  deep,  while  the  banks, 
muddy  and  abrupt,  made  it  a  hard  stream  to  cross. 

As  we  stood  considering  the  problem,  a  couple  of 
Indians  appeared  on  the  opposite  bank  with  a  small  raft, 
and  we  struck  a  bargain  with  them  to  ferry  our  outfit. 
They  set  us  across  in  short  order,  but  our  horses  were 
forced  to  swim.  They  were  very  much  alarmed  and 
shivered  with  excitement  (this  being  the  first  stream  that 
called  for  swimming),  but  they  crossed  in  fine  style, 
Ladrone  leading,  his  neck  curving,  his  nostrils  wide-blown. 
We  were  forced  to  camp  in  the  mud  of  the  river  bank, 
and  the  gray  clouds  flying  overhead  made  the  land  exceed 
ingly  dismal.  The  night  closed  in  wet  and  cheerless. 


The  Blackwater  Divide  57 

The  two  Indians  stopped  to  supper  with  us  and  ate 
heartily.  I  seized  the  opportunity  to  talk  with  them, 
and  secured  from  them  the  tragic  story  of  the  death  of 
the  Blackwater  Indians.  "  Siwash,  he  die  hy-u  (great 
many).  Hy-u  die,  chilens,  klootchmans  (women),  all 
die.  White  man  no  help.  No  send  doctor.  Siwash 
all  die,  white  man  no  care  belly  much." 

In  this  simple  account  of  the  wiping  out  of  a  vil 
lage  of  harmless  people  by  u  the  white  man's  disease  " 
(small-pox),  unaided  by  the  white  man's  wonderful  skill, 
there  lies  one  of  the  great  tragedies  of  savage  life.  Very 
few  were  left  on  the  Blackwater  or  on  the  Muddy, 
though  a  considerable  village  had  once  made  the  valley 
cheerful  with  its  primitive  pursuits. 

They  were  profoundly  impressed  by  our  tent  and  gun, 
and  sat  on  their  haunches  clicking  their  tongues  again 
and  again  in  admiration,  saying  of  the  tent,  "  All  the 
same  lilly  (little)  house."  I  tried  to  tell  them  of  the 
great  world  to  the  south,  and  asked  them  a  great  many 
questions  to  discover  how  much  they  knew  of  the 
people  or  the  mountains.  They  knew  nothing  of  the 
plains  Indians,  but  one  of  them  had  heard  of  Vancou 
ver  and  Seattle.  They  had  not  the  dignity  and  thinking 
power  of  the  plains  people,  but  they  seemed  amiable 
and  rather  jovial. 

We  passed  next  day  two  adventurers  tramping  their 
way  to  Hazleton.  Each  man  carried  a  roll  of  cheap 
quilts,  a  skillet,  and  a  cup.  We  came  upon  them  as 
they  were  taking  off  their  shoes  and  stockings  to  wade 
through  a  swift  little  river,  and  I  realized  with  a  sudden 


58  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

pang  of  sympathetic  pain,  how  distressing  these  streams 
must  be  to  such  as  go  afoot,  whereas  I,  on  my  fine 
horse,  had  considered  them  entirely  from  an  aesthetic 
point  of  view. 

We  had  been  on  the  road  from  Quesnelle  a  week, 
and  had  made  nearly  one  hundred  miles,  jogging  along 
some  fifteen  miles  each  day,  camping,  eating,  sleeping, 
with  nothing  to  excite  us  —  indeed,  the  trail  was  quiet 
as  a  country  lane.  A  dead  horse  here  and  there  warned 
us  to  be  careful  how  we  pushed  our  own  burden-bearers. 
We  were  deep  in  the  forest,  with  the  pale  blue  sky 
filled  with  clouds  showing  only  in  patches  overhead. 
We  passed  successively  from  one  swamp  of  black  pine 
to  another,  over  ridges  covered  with  white  pine,  all  pre 
cisely  alike.  As  soon  as  our  camp  was  set  and  fires 
lighted,  we  lost  all  sense  of  having  travelled,  so  similar 
were  the  surroundings  of  each  camp. 

Partridges  could  be  heard  drumming  in  the  lowlands. 
Mosquitoes  were  developing  by  the  millions,  and  cooking 
had  become  almost  impossible  without  protection.  The 
"  varments  "  came  in  relays.  A  small  gray  variety  took 
hold  of  us  while  it  was  warm,  and  when  it  became  too 
cold  for  them,  the  big,  black,  "  sticky  "  fellows  appeared 
mysteriously,  and  hung  around  in  the  air  uttering  deep, 
bass  notes  like  lazy  flies.  The  little  gray  fellows  were 
singularly  ferocious  and  insistent  in  their  attentions. 

At  last,  as  we  were  winding  down  the  trail  beneath 
the  pines,  we  came  suddenly  upon  an  Indian  with  a  gun 
in  the  hollow  of  his  arm.  So  still,  so  shadowy,  so 
neutral  in  color  was  he,  that  at  first  sight  he  seemed  a 


The  Blackwater  Divide  59 

part  of  the  forest,  like  the  shaded  bole  of  a  tree.  He 
turned  out  to  be  a  "  runner,"  so  to  speak,  for  the  ferry 
men  at  Tchincut  Crossing,  and  led  us  down  to  the  out 
let  of  the  lake  where  a  group  of  natives  with  their  slim 
canoes  sat  waiting  to  set  us  over.  An  hour's  brisk 
work  and  we  rose  to  the  fine  grassy  eastern  slope  over 
looking  the  lake. 

We  rose  on  our  stirrups  with  shouts  of  joy.  We 
had  reached  the  land  of  our  dreams !  Here  was  the 
trailers'  heaven !  Wooded  promontories,  around  which 
the  wavelets  sparkled,  pushed  out  into  the  deep,  clear 
flood.  Great  mountains  rose  in  the  background,  lonely, 
untouched  by  man's  all-desolating  hand,  while  all  about 
us  lay  suave  slopes  clothed  with  most  beautiful  pea- 
vine,  just  beginning  to  ripple  in  the  wind,  and  beyond 
lay  level  meadows  lit  by  little  ponds  filled  with  wild 
fowl.  There  was  just  forest  enough  to  lend  mystery  to 
these  meadows,  and  to  shut  from  our  eager  gaze  the 
beauties  of  other  and  still  more  entrancing  glades.  The 
most  exacting  hunter  or  trailer  could  not  desire  more 
perfect  conditions  for  camping.  It  was  God's  own 
country  after  the  gloomy  monotony  of  the  barren  pine 
forest,  and  needed  only  a  passing  deer  or  a  band  of  elk 
to  be  a  poem  as  well  as  a  picture. 

All  day  we  skirted  this  glorious  lake,  and  at  night  we 
camped  on  its  shores.  The  horses  were  as  happy  as 
their  masters,  feeding  in  plenty  on  sweet  herbage  for 
the  first  time  in  long  days. 

Late  in  the  day  we  passed  the  largest  Indian  village 
we  had  yet  seen.  It  was  situated  on  Stony  Creek, 


60  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

which  came  from  Tatchick  Lake  and  emptied  into 
Tchincut  Lake.  The  shallows  flickered  with  the  pass 
ing  of  trout,  and  the  natives  were  busy  catching  and 
drying  them.  As  we  rode  amid  the  curing  sheds,  the 
children  raised  a  loud  clamor,  and  the  women  laughed 
and  called  from  house  to  house,  u  Oh,  see  the  white 
men  !  "  We  were  a  circus  parade  to  them. 

Their  opportunities  for  earning  money  are  scant,  and 
they  live  upon  a  very  monotonous  diet  of  fish  and  pos 
sibly  dried  venison  and  berries.  Except  at  favorable 
points  like  Stony  Creek,  where  a  small  stream  leads 
from  one  lake  to  another,  there  are  no  villages  because 
there  are  no  fish. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  shining  vistas  through 
which  we  rode  that  day,  nor  the  meadows  which  pos 
sessed  all  the  allurement  and  mystery  which  the  word 
"  savanna "  has  always  had  with  me.  It  was  like 
going  back  to  the  prairies  of  Indiana,  Illinois,  and  Iowa, 
as  they  were  sixty  years  ago,  except  in  this  case  the  elk 
and  the  deer  were  absent. 


YET   STILL    WE    RODE 

We  wallowed  deep  in  mud  and  sand ; 

We  swam  swift  streams  that  roared  in  wrath 
They  stood  at  guard  in  that  lone  land, 

Like  dragons  in  the  slender  path. 

Yet  still  we  rode  right  on  and  on, 

And  shook  our  clenched  hands  at  the  sky. 

We  dared  the  frost  at  early  dawn, 
And  the  dread  tempest  sweeping  by. 

It  was  not  all  so  dark.     Now  and  again 
The  robin,  singing  loud  and  long, 

Made  wildness  tame,  and  lit  the  rain 
With  sudden  sunshine  with  his  song. 

Wild  roses  filled  the  air  with  grace, 
The  shooting-star  swung  like  a  bell 

From  bended  stem,  and  all  the  place 
Was  like  to  heaven  after  hell. 


61 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WE    SWIM    THE    NECHACO 

HERE  was  perfection  of  camping,  but  no  allurement 
could  turn  the  goldseekers  aside.  Some  of  them  re 
mained  for  a  day,  a  few  for  two  days,  but  not  one  forgot 
for  a  moment  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  Klondike 
River  sixteen  hundred  miles  away.  In  my  enthusiasm 
I  proposed  to  camp  for  a  week,  but  my  partner,  who 
was  "out  for  gold  instid  o'  daisies,  'guessed'  we'd  better 
be  moving."  He  could  not  bear  to  see  any  one  pass  us, 
and  that  was  the  feeling  of  every  man  on  the  trail. 
Each  seemed  to  fear  that  the  gold  might  all  be  claimed 
before  he  arrived.  With  a  sigh  I  turned  my  back  on 
this  glorious  region  and  took  up  the  forward  march. 

All  the  next  day  we  skirted  the  shores  of  Tatchick 
Lake,  coming  late  in  the  afternoon  to  the  Nechaco 
River,  a  deep,  rapid  stream  which  rose  far  to  our  left  in 
the  snowy  peaks  of  the  coast  range.  All  day  the  sky  to 
the  east  had  a  brazen  glow,  as  if  a  great  fire  were  raging 
there,  but  toward  night  the  wind  changed  and  swept  it 
away.  The  trail  was  dusty  for  the  first  time,  and  the 
flies  venomous.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  pitched 
camp,  setting  our  tent  securely,  expecting  rain.  Before 
we  went  to  sleep  the  drops  began  to  drum  on  the  tent 

63 


64  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

roof,  a  pleasant  sound  after  the  burning  dust  of  the  trail. 
The  two  trampers  kept  abreast  of  us  nearly  all  day,  but 
they  began  to  show  fatigue  and  hunger,  and  a  look  of 
almost  sullen  desperation  had  settled  on  their  faces. 

As  we  came  down  next  day  to  where  the  swift  Ne- 
chaco  met  the  Endako  rushing  out  of  Fraser  Lake,  we 
found  the  most  dangerous  flood  we  had  yet  crossed.  A 
couple  of  white  men  were  calking  a  large  ferry-boat, 
but  as  it  was  not  yet  seaworthy  and  as  they  had  no 
cable,  the  horses  must  swim.  I  dreaded  to  see  them 
enter  this  chill,  gray  stream,  for  not  only  was  it  wide 
and  swift,  but  the  two  currents  coming  together  made 
the  landing  confusing  to  the  horses  as  well  as  to  our 
selves.  Rain  was  at  hand  and  we  had  no  time  to 
waste. 

The  horses  knew  that  some  hard  swimming  was  ex 
pected  of  them  and  would  gladly  have  turned  back  if 
they  could.  We  surrounded  them  with  furious  outcry 
and  at  last  Ladrone  sprang  in  and  struck  for  the  nearest 
point  opposite,  with  that  intelligence  which  marks  the 
bronco  horse.  The  others  followed  readily.  Two  of 
the  poorer  ones  labored  heavily,  but  all  touched  shore  in 
good  order. 

The  rain  began  to  fall  sharply  and  we  were  forced  to 
camp  on  the  opposite  bank  as  swiftly  as  possible,  in 
order  to  get  out  of  the  storm.  We  worked  hard  and 
long  to  put  everything  under  cover  and  were  muddy  and 
tired  at  the  end  of  it.  At  last  the  tent  was  up,  the  out 
fit  covered  with  waterproof  canvas,  the  fire  blazing  and 
our  bread  baking.  In  pitching  our  camp  we  had  plenty 


We  Swim  the  Nechaco  65 

of  assistance  at  the  hands  of  several  Indian  boys  from  a 
near-by  village,  who  hung  about,  eager  to  lend  a  hand, 
in  the  hope  of  getting  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  piece  of 
bread  in  payment.  The  streaming  rain  seemed  to  have 
no  more  effect  upon  them  than  on  a  loon.  The  condi 
tions  were  all  strangely  similar  to  those  at  the  Muddy 
River. 

Night  closed  in  swiftly.  Through  the  dark  we  could 
hear  the  low  swish  of  the  rising  river,  and  Burton,  with 
a  sly  twinkle  in  his  eye,  remarked,  "  For  a  semi-arid 
country,  this  is  a  pretty  wet  rain." 

In  planning  the  trip,  I  had  written  to  him  saying : 
"  The  trail  runs  for  the  most  part  though  a  semi-arid 
country,  somewhat  like  eastern  Washington." 

It  rained  all  the  next  day  and  we  were  forced  to 
remain  in  camp,  which  was  dismal  business ;  but  we 
made  the  best  of  it,  doing  some  mending  of  clothes  and 
tackle  during  the  long  hours. 

We  were  visited  by  all  the  Indians  from  Old  Fort 
Fraser,  which  was  only  a  mile  away.  They  sat  about 
our  blazing  fire  laughing  and  chattering  like  a  group  of 
girls,  discussing  our  characters  minutely,  and  trying  to 
get  at  our  reasons  for  going  on  such  a  journey. 

One  of  them  who  spoke  a  little  English  said,  after 
looking  over  my  traps  :  "  You  boss,  you  ty-ee,  you  belly 
rich  man.  Why  you  come  ?  " 

This  being  interpreted  meant,  "You  have  a  great 
many  splendid  things,  you  are  rich.  Now,  why  do  you 
come  away  out  here  in  this  poor  Siwash  country  ?  " 

I   tried  to  convey  to  him  that  I  wished  to  see  the 


66  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

mountains  and  to  get  acquainted  with  the  people.  He 
then  asked,  "  More  white  men  come  ?  " 

Throwing  my  hands  in  the  air  and  spreading  my 
fingers  many  times,  I  exclaimed,  "  Hy-u  white  man, 
hy-u ! "  Whereat  they  all  clicked  their  tongues  and 
looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment.  They  could  not 
understand  why  this  sudden  flood  of  white  people  should 
pour  into  their  country.  This  I  also  explained  in  lame 
Chinook:  "We  go  klap  Pilchickamin  (gold).  White 
man  hears  say  Hy-u  Pilchickamin  there  (I  pointed  to 
the  north).  White  man  heap  like  Pilchickamin,  so  he 
comes." 

All  the  afternoon  and  early  evening  little  boys  came 
and  went  on  the  swift  river  in  their  canoes,  singing  wild, 
hauntingly  musical  boating  songs.  They  had  no  horses, 
but  assembled  in  their  canoes,  racing  and  betting  pre 
cisely  as  the  Cheyenne  lads  run  horses  at  sunset  in  the 
valley  of  the  Lamedeer.  All  about  the  village  the  grass 
was  rich  and  sweet,  uncropped  by  any  animal,  for  these 
poor  fishermen  do  not  aspire  to  the  wonderful  wealth  of 
owning  a  horse.  They  had  heard  that  cattle  were  com 
ing  over  the  trail  and  all  inquired,  "  Spose  when  Moos- 
Moos  come  ?  "  They  knew  that  milk  and  butter  were 
good  things,  and  some  of  them  had  hopes  of  owning  a 
cow  sometime. 

They  had  tiny  little  gardens  in  sheltered  places  on  the 
sunny  slopes,  wherein  a  few  potatoes  were  planted;  for 
the  rest  they  hunt  and  fish  and  trap  in  winter  and  trade 
skins  for  meat  and  flour  and  coffee,  and  so  live.  How 
they  endure  the  winters  in  such  wretched  houses,  it  is 


We  Swim  the  Nechaco  67 

impossible  to  say.  There  was  a  lone  white  man  living 
on  the  site  of  the  old  fort,  as  agent  of  the  Hudson  Bay 
Company.  He  kept  a  small  stock  of  clothing  and 
groceries  and  traded  for  "  skins,"  as  the  Indians  all  call 
pelts.  They  count  in  skins.  So  many  skins  will  buy  a 
rifle,  so  many  more  will  secure  a  sack  of  flour. 

The  storekeeper  told  me  that  the  two  trampers  had 
arrived  there  a  few  days  before  without  money  and  with 
out  food.  u  I  gave  'em  some  flour  and  sent  'em  on," 
he  said.  u  The  Siwashes  will  take  care  of  them,  but  it 
ain't  right.  What  the  cussed  idiots  mean  by  setting  out 
on  such  a  journey  I  can't  understand.  Why,  one  tramp 
came  in  here  early  in  the  spring  who  couldn't  speak 
English,  and  who  left  Quesnelle  without  even  a  blanket 
or  an  axe.  Fact  !  And  yet  the  Lord  seems  to  take  care 
of  these  fools.  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  that  fellow 
picked  up  an  axe  and  a  blanket  the  first  day  out.  But 
he'd  a  died  only  for  the  Indians.  They  won't  let  even 
a  white  man  starve  to  death.  I  helped  him  out  with 
some  flour  and  he  went  on.  They  all  rush  on.  Seems 
like  they  was  just  crazy  to  get  to  Dawson — couldn't 
sleep  without  dreamin'  of  it." 

I  was  almost  as  eager  to  get  on  as  the  tramps,  but 
Burton  went  about  his  work  regularly  as  a  clock.  I 
wrote,  yawned,  stirred  the  big  campfire,  gazed  at  the 
clouds,  talked  with  the  Indians,  and  so  passed  the  day.  I 
began  to  be  disturbed,  for  I  knew  the  power  of  a  rain  on 
the  trail.  It  transforms  it,  makes  it  ferocious.  The 
path  that  has  charmed  and  wooed,  becomes  uncertain, 
treacherous,  gloomy,  and  engulfing.  Creeks  become 


68  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

rivers,  rivers  impassable  torrents,  and  marshes  bottomless 
abysses.  Pits  of  quicksand  develop  in  most  unexpected 
places.  Driven  from  smooth  lake  margins,  the  trailers' 
ponies  are  forced  to  climb  ledges  of  rock,  and  to  rattle 
over  long  slides  of  shale.  In  places  the  threadlike  way 
itself  becomes  an  aqueduct  for  a  rushing  overflow  of 
water. 

At  such  times  the  man  on  the  trail  feels  the  grim 
power  of  Nature.  She  has  no  pity,  no  consideration. 
She  sets  mud,  torrents,  rocks,  cold,  mist,  to  check  and 
chill  him,  to  devour  him.  Over  him  he  has  no  roof, 
under  him  no  pavement.  Never  for  an  instant  is  he  free 
from  the  pressure  of  the  elements.  Sullen  streams  lie 
athwart  his  road  like  dragons,  and  in  a  land  like  this, 
where  snowy  peaks  rise  on  all  sides,  rain  meant  sudden 
and  enormous  floods  of  icy  water. 

It  was  still  drizzling  on  the  third  day,  but  we  packed 
and  pushed  on,  though  the  hills  were  slippery  and  the 
creeks  swollen.  Water  was  everywhere,  but  the  sun 
came  out,  lighting  the  woods  into  radiant  greens  and 
purples.  Robins  and  sparrows  sang  ecstatically,  and 
violets,  dandelions,  and  various  kinds  of  berries  were  in 
odorous  bloom.  A  vine  with  a  blue  flower,  new  to  me, 
attracted  my  attention,  also  a  yellow  blossom  of  the  cow 
slip  variety.  This  latter  had  a  form  not  unlike  a  wild 
sunflower. 

Here  for  the  first  time  I  heard  a  bird  singing  a  song 
quite  new  to  me.  He  was  a  thrushlike  little  fellow, 
very  shy  and  difficult  to  see  as  he  sat  poised  on  the  tip 
of  a  black  pine  in  the  deep  forest.  His  note  was  a  clear 


We  Swim  the  Nechaco  69 

cling-ling,  like  the  ringing  of  a  steel  triangle.  Cbing- 
aling,  ckingaling,  one  called  near  at  hand,  and  then  farther 
off  another  answered,  ching,  ching^  cbingaling-aling^  with 
immense  vim,  power,  and  vociferation. 

Burton,  who  had  spent  many  years  in  the  mighty  for 
ests  of  Washington,  said :  "  That  little  chap  is  familiar 
to  me.  Away  in  the  pines  where  there  is  no  other  bird 
I  used  to  hear  his  voice.  No  matter  how  dark  it  was,  I 
could  always  tell  when  morning  was  coming  by  his  note, 
and  on  cloudy  days  I  could  always  tell  when  the  sunset 
was  coming  by  hearing  him  call." 

To  me  his  phrase  was  not  unlike  the  metallic  ringing 
cry  of  a  sort  of  blackbird  which  I  heard  in  the  torrid 
plazas  of  Mexico.  He  was  very  difficult  to  distinguish, 
for  the  reason  that  he  sat  so  high  in  the  tree  and  was  so 
wary.  He  was  very  shy  of  approach.  He  was  a  plump, 
trim  little  fellow  of  a  plain  brown  color,  not  unlike  a 
small  robin. 

There  was  another  cheerful  little  bird,  new  to  me 
also,  which  uttered  an  amusing  phrase  in  two  keys, 
something  like  tee  tay,  tee  tay,  tee  tay,  one  note  sustained 
high  and  long,  followed  by  another  given  on  a  lower  key. 
It  was  not  unlike  to  the  sound  made  by  a  boy  with  a  tun 
ing  pipe.  This,  Burton  said,  was  also  a  familiar  sound 
in  the  depths  of  the  great  Washington  firs.  These  two 
cheery  birds  kept  us  company  in  the  gloomy,  black-pine 
forest,  when  we  sorely  needed  solace  of  some  kind. 

Fraser  Lake  was  also  very  charming,  romantic  enough 
to  be  the  scene  of  Cooper's  best  novels.  The  water  was 
deliciously  clear  and  cool,  and  from  the  farther  shore 


yo  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

great  mountains  rose  in  successive  sweeps  of  dark  green 
foothills.  At  this  time  we  felt  well  satisfied  with  our 
selves  and  the  trip.  With  a  gleam  in  his  eyes  Burton 
said,  "  This  is  the  kind  of  thing  our  folks  think  we're 
doing  all  the  time." 


RELENTLESS    NATURE 

She  laid  her  rivers  to  snare  us, 
She  set  her  snows  to  chill, 
Her  clouds  had  the  cunning  of  vultures, 
Her  plants  were  charged  to  kill. 
The  glooms  of  her  forests  benumbed  us, 
On  the  slime  of  her  ledges  we  sprawled ; 
But  we  set  our  feet  to  the  northward, 
And  crawled  and  crawled  and  crawled  ! 
We  defied  her,  and  cursed  her,  and  shouted 
"  To  hell  with  your  rain  and  your  snow. 
Our  minds  we  have  set  on  a  journey, 
And  despite  of  your  anger  we  go  !  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    FIRST   CROSSING   OF    THE    BULKLEY 

WE  were  now  following  a  chain  of  lakes  to  the 
source  of  the  Endako,  one  of  the  chief  northwest 
sources  of  the  Fraser,  and  were  surrounded  by  tumultu 
ous  ridges  covered  with  a  seamless  robe  of  pine  forests. 
For  hundreds  of  miles  on  either  hand  lay  an  absolutely 
untracked  wilderness.  In  a  land  like  this  the  trail 
always  follows  a  water-course,  either  ascending  or  de 
scending  it ;  so  for  some  days  we  followed  the  edges  of 
these  lakes  and  the  banks  of  the  connecting  streams, 
toiling  over  sharp  hills  and  plunging  into  steep  ravines, 
over  a  trail  belly-deep  in  mud  and  water  and  through  a 
wood  empty  of  life. 

These  were  hard  days.  We  travelled  for  many  hours 
through  a  burnt-out  tract  filled  with  twisted,  blackened 
uprooted  trees  in  the  wake  of  fire  and  hurricane.  From 
this  tangled  desolation  I  received  the  suggestion  of  some 
verses  which  I  call  "  The  Song  of  the  North  Wind." 
The  wind  and  the  fire  worked  together.  If  the  wind 
precedes,  he  prepares  the  way  for  his  brother  fire,  and  in 
return  the  fire  weakens  the  trees  to  the  wind. 

We  had  settled  into  a  dull  routine,  and  the  worst 
feature  of  each  day's  work  was  the  drag,  drag  of  slow 

73 


74  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

hours  on  the  trail.  We  could  not  hurry,  and  we  were 
forced  to  watch  our  horses  with  unremitting  care  in 
order  to  nurse  them  over  the  hard  spots,  or,  rather,  the 
soft  spots,  in  the  trail.  We  were  climbing  rapidly  and 
expected  soon  to  pass  from  the  watershed  of  the  Fraser 
into  that  of  the  Skeena. 

We  passed  a  horse  cold  in  death,  with  his  head  flung 
up  as  if  he  had  been  righting  the  wolves  in  his  final 
death  agony.  It  was  a  grim  sight.  Another  beast 
stood  abandoned  beside  the  trail,  gazing  at  us  reproach 
fully,  infinite  pathos  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  not  to  have 
the  energy  to  turn  his  head,  but  stood  as  if  propped  upon 
his  legs,  his  ribs  showing  with  horrible  plainness  a  tragic 
dejection  in  every  muscle  and  limb. 

The  feed  was  fairly  good,  our  horses  were  feeling  well, 
and  curiously  enough  the  mosquitoes  had  quite  left  us. 
We  overtook  and  passed  a  number  of  outfits  camped 
beside  a  splendid  rushing  stream. 

On  Burns'  Lake  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  settle 
ment  of  quite  sizable  Indian  houses  with  beautiful 
pasturage  about.  The  village  contained  twenty-five  or 
thirty  families  of  carrier  Indians,  and  was  musical  with 
the  plaintive  boat-songs  of  the  young  people.  How 
long  these  native  races  have  lived  here  no  one  can  tell, 
but  their  mark  on  the  land  is  almost  imperceptible. 
They  are  not  of  those  who  mar  the  landscape. 

On  the  first  of  June  we  topped  the  divide  between 
the  two  mighty  watersheds.  Behind  us  lay  the  Fraser, 
before  us  the  Skeena.  The  majestic  coast  range  rose 
like  a  wall  of  snow  far  away  to  the  northwest,  while  a 


The  First  Crossing  of  the  Bulkley       75 

near-by  lake,  filling  the  foreground,  reflected  the  blue 
ridges  of  the  middle  distance  —  a  magnificent  spread 
of  wild  landscape.  It  made  me  wish  to  abandon  the 
trail  and  push  out  into  the  unexplored. 

From  this  point  we  began  to  descend  toward  the 
Bulkley,  which  is  the  most  easterly  fork  of  the  Skeena. 
Soon  after  starting  on  our  downward  path  we  came  to  a 
fork  in  the  trail.  One  trail,  newly  blazed,  led  to  the 
right  and  seemed  to  be  the  one  to  take.  We  started 
upon  it,  but  found  it  dangerously  muddy,  and  so  re 
turned  to  the  main  trail  which  seemed  to  be  more 
numerously  travelled.  Afterward  we  wished  we  had 
taken  the  other,  for  we  got  one  of  our  horses  into  the 
quicksand  and  worked  for  more  than  three  hours  in  the 
attempt  to  get  him  out.  A  horse  is  a  strange  animal. 
He  is  counted  intelligent,  and  so  he  is  if  he  happens  to 
be  a  bronco  or  a  mule.  But  in  proportion  as  he  is  a 
thoroughbred,  he  seems  to  lose  power  to  take  care  of 
himself —  loses  heart.  Our  Ewe-neck  bay  had  a  trace 
of  racer  in  him,  and  being  weakened  by  poor  food,  it 
was  his  bad  luck  to  slip  over  the  bank  into  a  quicksand 
creek.  Having  found  himself  helpless  he  instantly  gave 
up  heart  and  lay  out  with  a  piteous  expression  of  resigna 
tion  in  his  big  brown  eyes.  We  tugged  and  lifted  and 
rolled  him  around  from  one  position  to  another,  each 
more  dangerous  than  the  first,  all  to  no  result. 

While  I  held  him  up  from  drowning,  my  partner 
"  brushed  in  "  around  him  so  that  he  could  not  become 
submerged.  We  tried  hitching  the  other  horses  to  him 
in  order  to  drag  him  out,  but  as  they  were  saddle- 


7  6  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

horses,  and  had  never  set  shoulder  to  a  collar  in  their 
lives,  they  refused  to  pull  even  enough  to.  take  the 
proverbial  setting  hen  off  the  nest. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  felt  no  need  of  company  on  the 
trail,  and  for  the  most  part  we  had  travelled  alone.  But 
I  now  developed  a  poignant  desire  to  hear  the  tinkle  of 
a  bell  on  the  back  trail,  for  there  is  no  "  funny  busi 
ness  "  about  losing  a  packhorse  in  the  midst  of  a  wild 
country.  His  value  is  not  represented  by  the  twenty- 
five  dollars  which  you  originally  paid  for  him.  Some 
times  his  life  is  worth  all  you  can  give  for  him. 

After  some  three  hours  of  toil  (the  horse  getting 
weaker  all  the  time),  I  looked  around  once  more  with 
despairing  gaze,  and  caught  sight  of  a  bunch  of  horses 
across  the  valley  flat.  In  this  country  there  were  no 
horses  except  such  as  the  goldseeker  owned,  and  this 
bunch  of  horses  meant  a  camp  of  trailers.  Leaping  to 
my  saddle,  I  galloped  across  the  spongy  marsh  to  hailing 
distance. 

My  cries  for  help  brought  two  of  the  men  running 
with  spades  to  help  us.  The  four  of  us  together  lifted 
the  old  horse  out  of  the  pit  more  dead  than  alive.  We 
fell  to  and  rubbed  his  legs  to  restore  circulation.  Later 
we  blanketed  him  and  turned  him  loose  upon  the  grass. 
In  a  short  time  he  was  nearly  as  well  as  ever. 

It  was  a  sorrowful  experience,  for  a  fallen  horse  is  a 
horse  in  ruins  and  makes  a  most  woful  appeal  upon 
one's  sympathies.  I  went  to  bed  tired  out,  stiff  and 
sore  from  pulling  on  the  rope,  my  hands  blistered,  my 
nerves  shaken. 


The  First  Crossing  of  the  Bulkley       77 

As  I  was  sinking  off  to  sleep  I  heard  a  wolf  howl,  as 
though  he  mourned  the  loss  of  a  feast. 

We  had  been  warned  that  the  Bulkley  River  was  a 
bad  stream  to  cross,  —  in  fact,  the  road-gang  had  cut  a 
new  trail  in  order  to  avoid  it,  —  that  is  to  say,  they  kept 
to  the  right  around  the  sharp  elbow  which  the  river  makes 
at  this  point,  whereas  the  old  trail  cut  directly  across  the 
elbow,  making  two  crossings.  At  the  point  where  the 
new  trail  led  to  the  right  we  held  a  council  of  war  to 
determine  whether  to  keep  to  the  old  trail,  and  so  save 
several  days'  travel,  or  to  turn  to  the  right  and  avoid  the 
difficult  crossing.  The  new  trail  was  reported  to  be 
exceedingly  miry,  and  that  determined  the  matter  —  we 
concluded  to  make  the  short  cut. 

We  descended  to  the  Bulkley  through  clouds  of 
mosquitoes  and  endless  sloughs  of  mud.  The  river 
was  out  of  its  banks,  and  its  quicksand  flats  were  ex 
ceedingly  dangerous  to  our  pack  animals,  although  the 
river  itself  at  this  point  was  a  small  and  sluggish  stream. 

It  took  us  exactly  five  hours  of  most  exhausting  toil 
to  cross  the  river  and  its  flat.  We  worked  like  beavers, 
we  sweated  like  hired  men,  wading  up  to  our  knees  in 
water,  and  covered  with  mud,  brushing  in  a  road  over 
the  quicksand  for  the  horses  to  walk.  The  Ewe- 
necked  bay  was  fairly  crazy  with  fear  of  the  mud,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  lead  him  over  every  foot  of  the  way. 
We  went  into  camp  for  the  first  time  too  late  to  eat  by 
daylight.  It  became  necessary  for  us  to  use  a  candle 
inside  the  tent  at  about  eleven  o'clock. 

The  horses  were  exhausted,  and  crazy  for  feed.     It 


7  8  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

was  a  struggle  to  get  them  unpacked,  so  eager  were 
they  to  forage.  Ladrone,  always  faithful,  touched  my 
heart  by  his  patience  and  gentleness,  and  his  reliance 
upon  me.  I  again  heard  a  gray  wolf  howl  as  I  was 
sinking  off  to  sleep. 


THE    GAUNT    GRAY    WOLF 

O  a  shadowy  beast  is  the  gaunt  gray  wolf ! 
And  his  feet  fall  soft  on  a  carpet  of  spines ; 
Where  the  night  shuts  quick  and  the  winds  are  cold 
He  haunts  the  deeps  of  the  northern  pines. 

His  eyes  are  eager,  his  teeth  are  keen, 
As  he  slips  at  night  through  the  bush  like  a  snake, 
Crouching  and  cringing,  straight  into  the  wind, 
To  leap  with  a  grin  on  the  fawn  in  the  brake. 

He  falls  like  a  cat  on  the  mother  grouse 
Brooding  her  young  in  the  wind-bent  weeds, 
Or  listens  to  heed  with  a  start  of  greed 
The  bittern  booming  from  river  reeds. 

He's  the  symbol  of  hunger  the  whole  earth  through, 

His  spectre  sits  at  the  door  or  cave, 

And  the  homeless  hear  with  a  thrill  of  fear 

The  sound  of  his  wind-swept  voice  on  the  air. 


79 


ABANDONED     ON    THE    TRAIL 

A  poor  old  horse  with  down-cast  mien  and  sad  wild  eyes, 

Stood  by  the  lonely  trail — and  oh  ! 

He  was  so  piteous  lean. 

He  seemed  to  look  a  mild  surprise 

At  all  mankind  that  we  should  treat  him  so. 

How  hardily  he  struggled  up  the  trail 

And  through  the  streams 

All  men  should  know. 

Yet  now  abandoned  to  the  wolf,  his  waiting  foe, 

He  stood  in  silence,  as  an  old  man  dreams. 

And  as  his  master  left  him,  this  he  seemed  to  say  : 

"  You  leave  me  helpless  by  the  path  ; 

I  do  not  curse  you,  but  I  pray 

Defend  me  from  the  wolves'  wild  wrath ! " 

And  yet  his  master  rode  away ! 


80 


CHAPTER  X 

DOWN    THE    BULKLEY    VALLEY 

As  we  rose  to  the  top  of  the  divide  which  lies  between 
the  two  crossings  of  the  Bulkley,  a  magnificent  view  of 
the  coast  range  again  lightened  the  horizon.  In  the 
foreground  a  lovely  lake  lay.  On  the  shore  of  this 
lake  stood  a  single  Indian  shack  occupied  by  a  half- 
dozen  children  and  an  old  woman.  They  were  all 
wretchedly  clothed  in  graceless  rags,  and  formed  a  bitter 
and  depressing  contrast  to  the  magnificence  of  nature. 

One  of  the  lads  could  talk  a  little  Chinook  mixed 
with  English. 

u  How  far  is  it  to  the  ford  ?  "  I  asked  of  him. 

"  White  man  say,  mebbe-so  six,  mebbe-so  nine  mile." 

Knowing  the  Indian's  vague  idea  of  miles,  I  said :  — 

"  How  long  before  we  reach  the  ford  ?  Sit-kum  sun  ? " 
which  is  to  say  noon. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Klip  sun  come.  Me  go-hyak  make  canoe.  Me 
felly." 

By  which  he  meant :  "  You  will  arrive  at  the  ford  by 
sunset.  I  will  hurry  on  and  build  a  raft  and  ferry  you 
over  the  stream." 

With  an  axe  and  a  sack  of  dried  fish  on  his  back  and 
G  81 


82  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

a  poor  old  shot-gun  in  his  arm,  he  led  the  way  down 
the  trail  at  a  slapping  pace.  He  kept  with  us  till  dinner 
time,  however,  in  order  to  get  some  bread  and  coffee. 

Like  the  Jicarilla  Apaches,  these  people  have  discov 
ered  the  virtues  of  the  inner  bark  of  the  black  pine.  All 
along  the  trail  were  trees  from  which  wayfarers  had 
lunched,  leaving  a  great  strip  of  the  white  inner  wood 
exposed. 

"  Man  heap  dry  —  this  muck-a-muck  heap  good," 
said  the  young  fellow,  as  he  handed  me  a  long  strip  to 
taste.  It  was  cool  and  sweet  to  the  tongue,  and  on  a 
hot  day  would  undoubtedly  quench  thirst.  The  boy 
took  it  from  the  tree  by  means  of  a  chisel-shaped  iron 
after  the  heavy  outer  bark  has  been  hewed  away  by  the 
axe. 

All  along  the  trail  were  tree  trunks  whereon  some 
loitering  young  Siwash  had  delineated  a  human  face  by 
a  few  deft  and  powerful  strokes  of  the  axe,  the  sculptu 
ral  planes  of  cheeks,  brow,  and  chin  being  indicated 
broadly  but  with  truth  and  decision.  Often  by  some 
old  camp  a  tree  would  bear  on  a  planed  surface  the  rude 
pictographs,  so  that  those  coming  after  could  read  the 
number,  size,  sex,  and  success  at  hunting  of  those  who 
had  gone  before.  There  is  something  Japanese,  it  seems 
to  me,  in  this  natural  taste  for  carving  among  all  the 
Northwest  people. 

All  about  us  was  now  riotous  June.  The  season 
was  incredibly  warm  and  forward,  considering  the  lati 
tude.  Strawberries  were  in  bloom,  birds  were  singing, 
wild  roses  appeared  in  miles  and  in  millions,  plum  and 


Down  the  Bulkley  Valley  83 

cherry  trees  were  white  with  blossoms  —  in  fact,  the 
splendor  and  radiance  of  Iowa  in  June.  A  beautiful 
lake  occupied  our  left  nearly  all  day. 

As  we  arrived  at  the  second  crossing  of  the  Bulkley 
about  six  o'clock,  our  young  Indian  met  us  with  a  sor 
rowful  face. 

"  Stick  go  in  chuck.     No  canoe.     Walk  stick." 

A  big  cottonwood  log  had  fallen  across  the  stream  and 
lay  half-submerged  and  quivering  in  the  rushing  river. 
Over  this  log  a  half-dozen  men  were  passing  like  ants, 
wet  with  sweat,  "bucking"  their  outfits  across.  The 
poor  Siwash  was  out  of  a  job  and  exceedingly  sorrowful. 

"This  is  the  kind  of  picnic  we  didn't  expect,"  said 
one  of  the  young  men,  as  I  rode  up  to  see  what  progress 
they  were  making. 

We  took  our  turn  at  crossing  the  tree  trunk,  which 
was  submerged  nearly  a  foot  deep  with  water  running 
at  mill-race  speed,  and  resumed  the  trail,  following  run 
ning  water  most  of  the  way  over  a  very  good  path. 
Once  again  we  had  a  few  hours'  positive  enjoyment, 
with  no  sense  of  being  in  a  sub-arctic  country.  We 
could  hardly  convince  ourselves  that  we  were  in  latitude 
54.  The  only  peculiarity  which  I  never  quite  forgot 
was  the  extreme  length  of  the  day.  At  10.30  at 
night  it  was  still  light  enough  to  write.  No  sooner  did 
it  get  dark  on  one  side  of  the  hut  before  it  began  to 
lighten  on  the  other.  The  weather  was  gloriously  cool, 
crisp,  and  invigorating,  and  whenever  we  had  sound  soil 
under  our  feet  we  were  happy. 

The  country  was  getting   each   hour   more  superbly 


84  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

mountainous.  Great  snowy  peaks  rose  on  all  sides. 
The  coast  range,  lofty,  roseate,  dim,  and  far,  loomed  ever 
in  the  west,  but  on  our  right  a  group  of  other  giants 
assembled,  white  and  stern.  A  part  of  the  time  we 
threaded  our  way  through  fire-devastated  forests  of  fir, 
and  then  as  suddenly  burst  out  into  tracts  of  wild  roses 
with  beautiful  open  spaces  of  waving  pea-vine  on  which 
our  horses  fed  ravenously. 

We  were  forced  to  throw  up  our  tent  at  every  meal, 
so  intolerable  had  the  mosquitoes  become.  Here  for 
the  first  time  our  horses  were  severely  troubled  by 
myriads  of  little  black  flies.  They  were  small,  but 
resembled  our  common  house  flies  in  shape,  and  were 
exceedingly  venomous.  They  filled  the  horses'  ears, 
and  their  sting  produced  minute  swellings  all  over  the 
necks  and  breasts  of  the  poor  animals.  Had  it  not 
been  for  our  pennyroyal  and  bacon  grease,  the  bay 
horse  would  have  been  eaten  raw. 

We  overtook  the  trampers  again  at  Chock  Lake. 
They  were  thin,  their  legs  making  sharp  creases  in 
their  trouser  legs  —  I  could  see  that  as  I  neared  them. 
They  were  walking  desperately,  reeling  from  side  to 
side  with  weakness.  There  was  no  more  smiling  on 
their  faces.  One  man,  the  smaller,  had  the  counte 
nance  of  a  wolf,  pinched  in  round  the  nose.  His 
bony  jaw  was  thrust  forward  resolutely.  The  taller 
man  was  limping  painfully  because  of  a  shoe  which 
had  gone  to  one  side.  Their  packs  were  light,  but 
their  almost  incessant  change  of  position  gave  evidence 
of  pain  and  great  weariness. 


Down  the  Bulkley  Valley  85 

I  drew  near  to  ask  how  they  were  getting  along. 
The  tall  man,  with  a  look  of  wistful  sadness  like  that 
of  a  hungry  dog,  said,  "  Not  very  well." 

"  How  are  you  off  for  grub  ?  " 

"  Nothing  left  but  some  beans  and  a  mere  handful 
of  flour." 

I  invited  them  to  a  "  square  meal "  a  few  miles  far 
ther  on,  and  in  order  to  help  them  forward  I  took  one 
of  their  packs  on  my  horse.  I  inferred  that  they  would 
take  turns  at  the  remaining  pack  and  so  keep  pace  with 
us,  for  we  were  dropping  steadily  now  —  down,  down 
through  the  most  beautiful  savannas,  with  fine  spring 
brooks  rushing  from  the  mountain's  side.  Flowers 
increased;  the  days  grew  warmer;  it  began  to  feel 
like  summer.  The  mountains  grew  ever  mightier, 
looming  cloudlike  at  sunset,  bearing  glaciers  on  their 
shoulders.  We  were  almost  completely  happy  —  but 
alas,  the  mosquitoes  !  Their  hum  silenced  the  songs 
of  the  birds;  their  feet  made  the  mountains  of  no 
avail.  The  otherwise  beautiful  land  became  a  restless 
hell  for  the  unprotected  man  or  beast.  It  was  impos 
sible  to  eat  or  sleep  without  some  defence,  and  our 
pennyroyal  salve  was  invaluable.  It  enabled  us  to 
travel  with  some  degree  of  comfort,  where  others  suf 
fered  martyrdom. 

At  noon  Burton  made  up  a  heavy  mess,  in  expecta 
tion  of  the  trampers,  who  had  fallen  a  little  behind. 
The  small  man  came  into  view  first,  for  he  had  aban 
doned  his  fellow-traveller.  This  angered  me,  and  I  was 
minded  to  cast  the  little  sneak  out  of  camp,  but  his 


86  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

pinched  and  hungry  face  helped  me  to  put  up  with 
him.  I  gave  him  a  smart  lecture  and  said,  "  I  sup 
posed  you  intended  to  help  the  other  man,  or  I  wouldn't 
have  relieved  you  of  a  pound." 

The  other  toiler  turned  up  soon,  limping,  and  stag 
gering  with  weakness.  When  dinner  was  ready,  they 
came  to  the  call  like  a  couple  of  starving  dogs.  The 
small  man  had  no  politeness  left.  He  gorged  himself 
like  a  wolf.  He  fairly  snapped  the  food  down  his 
throat.  The  tall  man,  by  great  effort,  contrived  to 
display  some  knowledge  of  better  manners.  As  they 
ate,  I  studied  them.  They  were  blotched  by  mosquito 
bites  and  tanned  to  a  leather  brown.  Their  thin  hands 
were  like  claws,  their  doubled  knees  seemed  about  to 
pierce  their  trouser  legs. 

"Yes,"  said  the  taller  man,  "the  mosquitoes  nearly 
eat  us  up.  We  can  only  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  or  from  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  sun 
rise.  We  walk  late  in  the  evening  —  till  nine  or  ten 
—  and  then  sit  in  the  smoke  till  it  gets  cold  enough 
to  drive  away  the  mosquitoes.  Then  we  try  to  sleep. 
But  the  trouble  is,  when  it  is  cold  enough  to  keep 
them  off,  it's  too  cold  for  us  to  sleep." 

"What  did  you  do  during  the  late  rains  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Oh,  we  kept  moving  most  of  the  time.  At  night 
we  camped  under  a  fir  tree  by  the  trail  and  dried  off. 
The  mosquitoes  didn't  bother  us  so  much  then.  We 
were  wet  nearly  all  the  time." 

I  tried  to  get  at  his  point  of  view,  his  justification 
for  such  senseless  action,  but  could  only  discover  a 


Down  the  Bulkley  Valley  87 

sort  of  blind  belief  that  something  would  help  him  pull 
through.  He  had  gone  to  the  Caribou  mines  to  find 
work,  and,  failing,  had  pushed  on  toward  Hazleton  with 
a  dim  hope  of  working  his  way  to  Teslin  Lake  and  to 
the  Klondike.  He  started  with  forty  pounds  of  pro 
visions  and  three  or  four  dollars  in  his  pocket.  He 
was  now  dead  broke,  and  his  provisions  almost  gone. 

Meanwhile,  the  smaller  man  made  no  sign  of  hear 
ing  a  word.  He  ate  and  ate,  till  my  friend  looked  at 
me  with  a  comical  wink.  We  fed  him  staples  — 
beans,  graham  bread,  and  coffee  —  and  he  slowly  but 
surely  reached  the  bottom  of  every  dish.  He  did  not 
fill  up,  he  simply  "  wiped  out "  the  cooked  food.  The 
tall  man  was  not  far  behind  him. 

As  he  talked,  I  imagined  the  life  they  had  led.  At 
first  the  trail  was  good,  and  they  were  able  to  make 
twenty  miles  each  day.  The  weather  was  dry  and 
warm,  and  sleeping  was  not  impossible.  They  camped 
close  beside  the  trail  when  they  grew  tired  —  I  had  seen 
and  recognized  their  camping-places  all  along.  But  the 
rains  came  on,  and  they  were  forced  to  walk  all  day 
through  the  wet  shrubs  with  the  water  dripping  from 
their  ragged  garments.  They  camped  at  night  beneath 
the  firs  (for  the  ground  is  always  dry  under  a  fir),  where 
a  fire  is  easily  built.  There  they  hung  over  the  flame, 
drying  their  clothing  and  their  rapidly  weakening  shoes. 
The  mosquitoes  swarmed  upon  them  bloodily  in  the 
shelter  and  warmth  of  the  trees,  for  they  had  no  netting  or 
tent.  Their  meals  were  composed  of  tea,  a  few  hastily 
stewed  beans,  and  a  poor  quality  of  sticky  camp  bread. 


88  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Their  sleep  was  broken  and  fitful.  They  were  either 
too  hot  or  too  cold,  and  the  mosquitoes  gave  way  only 
when  the  frost  made  slumber  difficult.  In  the  morning 
they  awoke  to  the  necessity  of  putting  on  their  wet 
shoes,  and  taking  the  muddy  trail,  to  travel  as  long  as 
they  could  stagger  forward. 

In  addition  to  all  this,  they  had  no  maps,  and  knew 
nothing  of  their  whereabouts  or  how  far  it  was  to  a 
human  habitation.  Their  only  comfort  lay  in  the  pass 
ing  of  outfits  like  mine.  From  such  as  I,  they  "  rustled 
food "  and  clothing.  The  small  man  did  not  even 
thank  us  for  the  meal ;  he  sat  himself  down  for  a  smoke 
and  communed  with  his  stomach  The  tall  man  was 
plainly  worsted.  His  voice  had  a  plaintive  droop.  His 
shoe  gnawed  into  his  foot,  and  his  pack  was  visibly 
heavier  than  that  of  his  companion. 

We  were  two  weeks  behind  our  schedule,  and  our 
own  flour  sack  was  not  much  bigger  than  a  sachet-bag, 
but  we  gave  them  some  rice  and  part  of  our  beans  and 
oatmeal,  and  they  moved  away. 

We  were  approaching  sea-level,  following  the  Bulkley, 
which  flows  in  a  northwesterly  direction  and  enters 
the  great  Skeena  River  at  right  angles,  just  below  its 
three  forks.  Each  hour  the  peaks  seemed  to  assemble 
and  uplift.  The  days  were  at  their  maximum,  the  sun 
set  shortly  after  eight,  but  it  was  light  until  nearly 
eleven.  At  midday  the  sun  was  fairly  hot,  but  the 
wind  swept  down  from  the  mountains  cool  and  refresh 
ing.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  those  radiant  meadows, 
over  which  the  far  mountains  blazed  in  almost  intol- 


Down  the  Bulkley  Valley  89 

erable  splendor ;  it  was  too  perfect  to  endure.  Like 
the  light  of  the  sun  lingering  on  the  high  peaks  with 
most  magical  beauty,  it  passed  away  to  be  seen  no 
more. 

In  the  midst  of  these  grandeurs  we  lost  one  of  our 
horses.  Whenever  a  horse  breaks  away  from  his  fellows 
on  the  trail,  it  is  pretty  safe  to  infer  he  has  "  hit  the 
back  track."  As  I  went  out  to  round  up  the  horses, 
"Major  Grunt"  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  He  had 
strayed  from  the  bunch  and  we  inferred  had  started  back 
over  the  trail.  We  trailed  him  till  we  met  one  of  the 
trampers,  who  assured  us  that  no  horse  had  passed  him 
in  the  night,  for  he  had  been  camped  within  six  feet  of 
the  path. 

Up  to  this  time  there  had  been  no  returning  footsteps, 
and  it  was  easy  to  follow  the  horse  so  long  as  he  kept 
to  the  trail,  but  the  tramper's  report  was  positive  —  no 
horse  had  passed  him.  We  turned  back  and  began 
searching  the  thickets  around  the  camp. 

We  toiled  all  day,  not  merely  because  the  horse  was 
exceedingly  valuable  to  us,  but  also  for  the  reason  that 
he  had  a  rope  attached  to  his  neck  and  I  was  afraid  he 
might  become  entangled  in  the  fallen  timber  and  so 
starve  to  death. 

The  tall  tramper,  who  had  been  definitely  abandoned 
by  his  partner,  was  a  sad  spectacle.  He  was  blotched 
by  mosquito  bites,  thin  and  weak  with  hunger,  and  his 
clothes  hung  in  tatters.  He  had  just  about  reached  the 
limit  of  his  courage,  and  though  we  were  uncertain  of 
our  horses,  and  our  food  was  nearly  exhausted,  we  gave 


90  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

him  all  the  rice  we  had  and  some  fruit  and  sent  him  on 
his  way. 

Night  came,  and  still  no  signs  of  "  Major  Grunt." 
It  began  to  look  as  though  some  one  had  ridden  him 
away  and  we  should  be  forced  to  go  on  without  him. 
This  losing  of  a  horse  is  one  of  the  accidents  which 
make  the  trail  so  uncertain.  We  were  exceedingly 
anxious  to  get  on.  There  was  an  oppressive  warmth  in 
the  air,  and  flies  and  mosquitoes  were  the  worst  we  had 
ever  seen.  Altogether  this  was  a  dark  day  on  our 
calendar. 

After  we  had  secured  ourselves  in  our  tents  that  night 
the  sound  of  the  savage  insects  without  was  like  the 
roaring  of  a  far-off  hailstorm.  The  horses  rolled  in 
the  dirt,  snorted,  wheeled  madly,  stamped,  shook  their 
heads,  and  flung  themselves  again  and  again  on  the 
ground,  giving  every  evidence  of  the  most  terrible  suffer 
ing.  "  If  this  is  to  continue,"  I  said  to  my  partner,  "  I 
shall  quit,  and  either  kill  all  my  horses  or  ship  them  out 
of  the  country.  I  will  not  have  them  eaten  alive  in  this 
way." 

It  was  impossible  to  go  outside  to  attend  to  them. 
Nothing  could  be  done  but  sit  in  gloomy  silence  and 
listen  to  the  drumming  of  their  frantic  feet  on  the  turf 
as  they  battled  against  their  invisible  foes.  At  last,  led 
by  old  Ladrone,  they  started  off  at  a  hobbling  gallop  up 
the  trail. 

"  Well,  we  are  in  for  it  now,"  I  remarked,  as  the 
footsteps  died  away.  "  They've  hit  the  back  trail,  and 
we'll  have  another  day's  hard  work  to  catch  'em  and 


Down  the  Bulkley  Valley  91 

bring  Jem  back.  However,  there's  no  use  worrying. 
The  mosquitoes  would  eat  us  alive  if  we  went  out  now. 
We  might  just  as  well  go  to  sleep  and  wait  till  morn 
ing."  Sleep  was  difficult  under  the  circumstances,  but 
we  dozed  off  at  last. 

As  we  took  their  trail  in  the  cool  of  the  next  morn 
ing,  we  found  the  horses  had  taken  the  back  trail  till 
they  reached  an  open  hillside,  and  had  climbed  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  timber.  There  they  were  all  in  a 
bunch,  with  the  exception  of  "  Major  Grunt,"  of  whom 
we  had  no  trace. 

With  a  mind  filled  with  distressing  pictures  of  the 
lost  horse  entangled  in  his  rope,  and  lying  flat  on  his 
side  hidden  among  the  fallen  tree  trunks,  there  to  strug 
gle  and  starve,  I  reluctantly  gave  orders  for  a  start,  with 
intent  to  send  an  Indian  back  to  search  for  him. 

After  two  hours'  smart  travel  we  came  suddenly  upon 
the  little  Indian  village  of  Morricetown,  which  is  built 
beside  a  narrow  canon  through  which  the  Bulkley 
rushes  with  tremendous  speed.  Here  high  on  the  level 
grassy  bank  we  camped,  quite  secure  from  mosquitoes, 
and  surrounded  by  the  curious  natives,  who  showed  us 
where  to  find  wood  and  water,  and  brought  us  the  most 
beautiful  spring  salmon,  and  potatoes  so  tender  and  fine 
that  the  skin  could  be  rubbed  from  them  with  the 
thumb.  They  were  exactly  like  new  potatoes  in  the 
States.  Out  of  this,  it  may  be  well  understood,  we  had 
a  most  satisfying  dinner.  Summer  was  in  full  tide. 
Pieplant  was  two  feet  high,  and  strawberries  were 
almost  ripe. 


92  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Calling  the  men  of  the  village  around  me,  I  explained 
in  Pigeon-English  and  worse  Chinook  that  I  had  lost  a 
horse,  and  that  I  would  give  five  dollars  to  the  man  who 
would  bring  him  to  me.  They  all  listened  attentively, 
filled  with  joy  at  a  chance  to  earn  so  much  money.  At 
last  the  chief  man  of  the  village,  a  very  good-looking 
fellow  of  twenty-five  or  thirty,  said  to  me ;  "  All  light, 
me  go,  me  fetch  'um.  You  stop  here.  Mebbe-so, 
klip-sun,  I  come  bling  horse." 

His  confidence  relieved  us  of  anxiety,  and  we  had  a 
very  pleasant  day  of  it,  digesting  our  bountiful  meal  of 
salmon  and  potatoes,  and  mending  up  our  clothing. 
We  were  now  pretty  ragged  and  very  brown,  but  in 
excellent  health. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  gang  of  road-cutters  (who 
had  been  sent  out  by  the  towns  interested  in  the  route) 
came  into  town  from  Hazleton,  and  I  had  a  talk  with 
the  boss,  a  very  decent  fellow,  who  gave  a  grim  report 
of  the  trail  beyond.  He  said :  "  Nobody  knows  any 
thing  about  that  trail.  Jim  Deacon,  the  head-man  of 
our  party  when  we  left  Hazleton,  was  only  about  seventy 
miles  out,  and  cutting  fallen  timber  like  a  man  chopping 
cord  wood,  and  sending  back  for  more  help.  We  are 
now  going  back  to  bridge  and  corduroy  the  places  we 
had  no  time  to  fix  as  we  came." 

Morricetown  was  a  superb  spot,  and  Burton  was 
much  inclined  to  stay  right  there  and  prospect  the 
near-by  mountains.  So  far  as  a  mere  casual  observer 
could  determine,  this  country  offers  every  inducement  to 
prospectors.  It  is  possible  to  grow  potatoes,  hay,  and 


Down  the  Bulkley  Valley  93 

oats,  together  with  various  small  fruits,  in  this  valley, 
and  if  gold  should  ever  be  discovered  in  the  rushing 
mountain  streams,  it  would  be  easy  to  sustain  a  camp 
and  feed  it  well. 

Long  before  sunset  an  Indian  came  up  to  us  and 
smilingly  said,  "  You  hoss  —  come."  And  a  few  min 
utes  later  the  young  ty-ee  came  riding  into  town  leading 
"  Major  Grunt,"  well  as  ever,  but  a  little  sullen.  He 
had  taken  the  back  trail  till  he  came  to  a  narrow  and 
insecure  bridge.  There  he  had  turned  up  the  stream, 
going  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  "stick,"  as  the  Siwash 
called  the  forest.  I  paid  the  reward  gladly,  and  Major 
took  his  place  among  the  other  horses  with  no  sign  of 
joy. 


DO    YOU    FEAR    THE    WIND? 

Do  you  fear  the  force  of  the  wind, 

The  slash  of  the  rain  ? 

Go  face  them  and  fight  them, 

Be  savage  again. 

Go  hungry  and  cold  like  the  wolf, 

Go  wade  like  the  crane. 
The  palms  of  your  hands  will  thicken, 
The  skin  of  your  cheek  will  tan, 
You'll  grow  ragged  and  weary  and  swarthy, 

But  you'll  walk  like  a  man  ! 


CHAPTER  XI 

HAZLETON.       MIDWAY    ON    THE    TRAIL 

WE  were  now  but  thirty  miles  from  Hazleton,  where 
our  second  bill  of  supplies  was  waiting  for  us,  and  we 
were  eager  to  push  on.  Taking  the  advice  of  the  road- 
gang  we  crossed  the  frail  suspension  bridge  (which  the 
Indians  had  most  ingeniously  constructed  out  of  logs  and 
pieces  of  old  telegraph  wire)  and  started  down  the  west 
side  of  the  river.  Every  ravine  was  filled  by  mountain 
streams'  foam  —  white  with  speed. 

We  descended  all  day  and  the  weather  grew  more  and 
more  summer-like  each  mile.  Ripe  strawberries  lured 
us  from  the  warm  banks.  For  the  first  time  we  came 
upon  great  groves  of  red  cedar  under  which  the  trail  ran 
very  muddy  and  very  slippery  by  reason  of  the  hard 
roots  of  the  cedars  which  never  decay.  Creeks  that 
seemed  to  me  a  good  field  for  placer  mining  came  down 
from  the  left,  but  no  one  stopped  to  do  more  than  pan  a 
little  gravel  from  a  cut  bank  or  a  bar. 

At  about  two  o'clock  of  the  second  day  we  came  to 
the  Indian  village  of  Hagellgate,  which  stands  on  the 
high  bank  overhanging  the  roaring  river  just  before  it 
empties  into  the  Skeena.  Here  we  got  news  of  the 
tramp  who  had  fallen  in  exhaustion  and  was  being 
cared  for  by  the  Indians. 

H  97 


98  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

*  Descending  swiftly  we  came  to  the  bank  of  the  river, 

which  was  wide,  tremendously  swift  and  deep  and  cold. 
Rival  Indian  ferry  companies  bid  for  our  custom,  each 
man  extolling  his  boat  at  the  expense  of  the  "  old  canoe 
—  no  good  "  of  his  rivals. 

The  canoes  were  like  those  to  be  seen  all  along  the 
coast,  that  is  to  say  they  had  been  hollowed  from  cotton- 
wood  or  pine  trees  and  afterward  steamed  and  spread  by 
means  of  hot  water  to  meet  the  maker's  idea  of  the 
proper  line  of  grace  and  speed.  They  were  really  beau 
tiful  and  sat  the  water  almost  as  gracefully  as  the  birch- 
bark  canoe  of  the  Chippewas.  At  each  end  they  rose 
into  a  sort  of  neck,  which  terminated  often  in  a  head 
carved  to  resemble  a  deer  or  some  fabled  animal.  Some 
of  them  had  white  bands  encircling  the  throat  of  this 
figurehead.  Their  paddles  were  short  and  broad,  but 
light  and  strong. 

These  canoes  are  very  seaworthy.  As  they  were 
driven  across  the  swift  waters,  they  danced  on  the  waves 
like  leaves,  and  the  boatmen  bent  to  their  oars  with 
almost  desperate  energy  and  with  most  excited  outcry. 

Therein  is  expressed  a  mighty  difference  between 
the  Siwash  and  the  plains  Indian.  The  Cheyenne,  the 
Sioux,  conceal  effort,  or  fear,  or  enthusiasm.  These 
little  people  chattered  and  whooped  at  each  other  like 
monkeys.  Upon  hearing  them  for  the  first  time  I 
imagined  they  were  losing  control  of  the  boat.  Judging 
from  their  accent  they  were  shrieking  phrases  like 
these :  — 

"  Quick,  quick !     Dig  in  deep,  Joe.     Scratch  now, 


Hazleton.     Midway  on  the  Trail         99 

we're  going  down  —  whoop  !  Hay,  now  !  All  to 
gether  —  swing  her,  dog-gone  ye  —  SWING  HER ! 
Now  straight  —  keep  her  straight !  Can't  ye  see  that 
eddy  ?  Whoop,  whoop  !  Let  out  a  link  or  two,  you 
spindle-armed  child.  Now  quick  or  we're  lost !  " 

While  the  other  men  seemed  to  reply  in  kind :  "  Oh, 
rats,  we're  a  makin'  it.  Head  her  toward  that  bush. 
Don't  get  scared  —  trust  me  —  I'll  sling  her  ashore  ! " 

A  plains  Indian,  under  similar  circumstances,  would 
have  strained  every  muscle  till  his  bones  cracked,  before 
permitting  himself  to  show  effort  or  excitement. 

With  all  their  confusion  and  chatter  these  little  people 
were  always  masters  of  the  situation.  They  came  out 
right,  no  matter  how  savage  the  river,  and  the  Bulkley 
at  this  point  was  savage.  Every  drop  of  water  was  in 
motion.  It  had  no  eddies,  no  slack  water.  Its  momen 
tum  was  terrific.  In  crossing,  the  boatmen  were  obliged 
to  pole  their  canoes  far  up  beyond  the  point  at  which 
they  meant  to  land ;  then,  at  the  word,  they  swung  into 
the  rushing  current  and  pulled  like  fiends  for  the  oppo 
site  shore.  Their  broad  paddles  dipped  so  rapidly  they 
resembled  paddle-wheels.  They  kept  the  craft  head-on 
to  the  current,  and  did  not  attempt  to  charge  the  bank 
directly,  but  swung-to  broadside.  In  this  way  they  led 
our  horses  safely  across,  and  came  up  smiling  each  time. 

We  found  Hazleton  to  be  a  small  village  composed 
mainly  of  Indians,  with  a  big  Hudson  Bay  post  at  its 
centre.  It  was  situated  on  a  lovely  green  flat,  but  a  few 
feet  above  the  Skeena,  which  was  a  majestic  flood  at  this 
point.  There  were  some  ten  or  fifteen  outfits  camped 


ioo          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

in  and  about  the  village,  resting  and  getting  ready  for  the 
last  half  of  the  trail.  Some  of  the  would-be  miners  had 
come  up  the  river  in  the  little  Hudson  Bay  steamer, 
which  makes  two  or  three  trips  a  year,  and  were  wait 
ing  for  her  next  trip  in  order  to  go  down  again. 

The  town  was  rilled  with  gloomy  stories  of  the  trail. 
No  one  knew  its  condition.  In  fact,  it  had  not  been 
travelled  in  seventeen  years,  except  by  the  Indians  on 
foot  with  their  packs  of  furs.  The  road  party  was  ahead, 
but  toiling  hard  and  hurrying  to  open  a  way  for  us. 

As  I  now  reread  all  the  advance  literature  of  this 
"prairie  route,"  I  perceived  how  skilfully  every  detail 
with  regard  to  the  last  half  of  the  trail  had  been  slurred 
over.  We  had  been  led  into  a  sort  of  sack,  and  the 
string  was  tied  behind  us. 

The  Hudson  Bay  agent  said  to  me  with  perfect  frank 
ness,  "  There's  no  one  in  this  village,  except  one  or  two 
Indians,  who's  ever  been  over  the  trail,  or  who  can  give 
you  any  information  concerning  it."  He  furthermore 
said,  "  A  large  number  of  these  fellows  who  are  starting 
in  on  this  trip  with  their  poor  little  cayuses  will  never 
reach  the  Stikeen  River,  and  might  better  stop  right  here." 

Feed  was  scarce  here  as  everywhere,  and  we  were 
forced  to  camp  on  the  trail,  some  two  miles  above  the 
town.  In  going  to  and  from  our  tent  we  passed  the 
Indian  burial  ground,  which  was  very  curious  and  inter 
esting  to  me.  It  was  a  veritable  little  city  of  the  dead, 
with  streets  of  tiny,  gayly  painted  little  houses  in  which 
the  silent  and  motionless  ones  had  been  laid  in  their  last 
sleep.  Each  tomb  was  a  shelter,  a  roof,  and  a  tomb, 


Hazleton.     Midway  on  the  Trail       101 

and  upon  each  the  builder  had  lavished  his  highest  skill 
in  ornament.  They  were  all  vivid  with  paint  and  carving 
and  lattice  work.  Each  builder  seemed  trying  to  outdo 
his  neighbor  in  making  a  cheerful  habitation  for  his  dead. 

More  curious  still,  in  each  house  were  the  things 
which  the  dead  had  particularly  loved.  In  one,  a  trunk 
contained  all  of  a  girl's  much-prized  clothing.  A  com 
plete  set  of  dishes  was  visible  in  another,  while  in  a  third 
I  saw  a  wash-stand,  bowl,  pitcher,  and  mirror.  There 
was  something  deeply  touching  to  me  in  all  this.  They 
are  so  poor,  their  lives  are  so  bare  of  comforts,  that  the 
consecration  of  these  articles  to  the  dead  seemed  a  greater 
sacrifice  than  we,  who  count  ourselves  civilized,  would 
make.  Each  chair,  or  table,  or  coat,  or  pair  of  shoes, 
costs  many  skins.  The  set  of  furniture  meant  many 
hard  journeys  in  the  cold,  long  days  of  trailing,  trapping, 
and  packing.  The  clothing  had  a  high  money  value, 
yet  it  remained  undisturbed.  I  saw  one  day  a  woman 
and  two  young  girls  halt  to  look  timidly  in  at  the  win 
dow  of  a  newly  erected  tomb,  but  only  for  a  moment ; 
and  then,  in  a  panic  of  fear  and  awe,  they  hurried  away. 

The  days  which  followed  were  cold  and  gloomy,  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  grim  tales  of  the  trail.  Bodies  of 
horses  and  mules,  drowned  in  the  attempt  to  cross  the 
Skeena,  were  reported  passing  the  wharf  at  the  post. 
The  wife  of  a  retired  Indian  agent,  who  claimed  to  have 
been  over  the  route  many  years  ago,  was  interviewed 
by  my  partner.  After  saying  that  it  was  a  terrible  trail, 
she  sententiously  ended  with  these  words,  "  Gentlemen, 
you  may  consider  yourselves  explorers." 


IO2  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

•  I  halted  a  very  intelligent  Indian  who  came  riding  by 
our  camp.  "  How  far  to  Teslin  Lake  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  mused.  "  Maybe  so  forty  days,  maybe  so  thirty 
days.  Me  think  forty  days." 

"  Good  feed  ?     Hy-u  muck-a-muck  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  in  silence  and  his  face  grew  a  little 
graver.  "Ha — lo  muck-a-muck  (no  feed).  Long  time  no 
glass.  Hy-yu  stick  (woods).  Hy-u  river — all  day  swim." 

Turning  to  Burton,  I  said,  "  Here  we  get  at  the  truth 
of  it.  This  man  has  no  reason  for  lying.  We  need 
another  horse,  and  we  need  fifty  pounds  more  flour." 

One  by  one  the  outfits  behind  us  came  dropping 
down  into  Hazleton  in  long  trains  of  weary  horses, 
some  of  them  in  very  bad  condition.  Many  of  the  gold- 
seekers  determined  to  "quit."  They  sold  their  horses 
as  best  they  could  to  the  Indians  (who  were  glad  to  buy 
them),  and  hired  canoes  to  take  them  to  the  coast,  intent 
to  catch  one  of  the  steamers  which  ply  to  and  fro  between 
Skagway  and  Seattle. 

But  one  by  one,  with  tinkling  bells  and  sharp  outcry 
of  drivers,  other  outfits  passed  us,  cheerily  calling  :  "  Good 
luck  !  See  you  later,"  all  bound  for  the  "  gold  belt." 
Gloomy  skies  continued  to  fill  the  imaginative  ones  with 
forebodings,  and  all  day  they  could  be  seen  in  groups 
about  the  village  discussing  ways  and  means.  Quarrels 
broke  out,  and  parties  disbanded  in  discouragement  and 
bitterness.  The  road  to  the  golden  river  seemed  to  grow 
longer,  and  the  precious  sand  more  elusive,  from  day  to 
day.  Here  at  Hazleton,  where  they  had  hoped  to  reach 
a  gold  region,  nothing  was  doing.  Those  who  had 


Hazleton.     Middle  of  the  Trail         103 

visited  the  Kisgagash  Mountains  to  the  north  were  luke 
warm  in  their  reports,  and  no  one  felt  like  stopping  to 
explore.  The  cry  was,  "  On  to  Dawson." 

Here  in  Hazleton  I  came  upon  the  lame  tramp.  He 
had  secured  lodging  in  an  empty  shack  and  was  being 
helped  to  food  by  some  citizens  in  the  town  for  whom 
he  was  doing  a  little  work.  Seeing  me  pass  he  called  to 
me  and  began  to  inquire  about  the  trail. 

I  read  in  the  gleam  of  his  eye  an  insane  resolution  to 
push  forward.  This  I  set  about  to  check.  u  If  you 
wish  to  commit  suicide,  start  on  this  trail.  The  four 
hundred  miles  you  have  been  over  is  a  summer  picnic 
excursion  compared  to  that  which  is  now  to  follow.  My 
advice  to  you  is  to  stay  right  where  you  are  until  the 
next  Hudson  Bay  steamer  comes  by,  then  go  to  the 
captain  and  tell  him  just  how  you  are  situated,  and  ask 
him  to  carry  you  down  to  the  coast.  You  are  insane  to 
think  for  a  moment  of  attempting  the  four  hundred  miles 
of  unknown  trail  between  here  and  Glenora,  especially 
without  a  cent  in  your  pocket  and  no  grub.  You  have 
no  right  to  burden  the  other  outfits  with  your  needs." 

This  plain  talk  seemed  to  affect  him  and  he  looked 
aggrieved.  "  But  what  can  I  do?  I  have  no  money 
and  no  work." 

I  replied  in  effect:  "Whatever  you  do,  you  can't  af 
ford  to  enter  upon  this  trail,  and  you  can't  expect  men 
who  are  already  short  of  grub  to  feed  and  take  care  of 
you.  There's  a  chance  for  you  to  work  your  way  back 
to  the  coast  on  the  Hudson  Bay  steamer.  There's  only 
starvation  on  the  trail." 


IO4          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

As  I  walked  away  he  called  after  me,  but  I  refused  to 
return.  I  had  the  feeling  in  spite  of  all  I  had  said  that 
he  would  attempt  to  rustle  a  little  grub  and  make  his 
start  on  the  trail.  The  whole  goldseeking  movement 
was,  in  a  way,  a  craze;  he  was  simply  an  extreme  devel 
opment  of  it. 

It  seemed  necessary  to  break  camp  in  order  not  to  be 
eaten  up  by  the  Siwash  dogs,  whose  peculiarities  grew 
upon  me  daily.  They  were  indeed  strange  beasts.  They 
seemed  to  have  no  youth.  I  never  saw  them  play ;  even 
the  puppies  were  grave  and  sedate.  They  were  never 
in  a  hurry  and  were  not  afraid.  They  got  out  of  our 
way  with  the  least  possible  exertion,  looking  meekly  re 
proachful  or  snarling  threateningly  at  us.  They  were 
ever  watchful.  No  matter  how  apparently  deep  their 
slumber,  they  saw  every  falling  crumb,  they  knew  where 
we  had  hung  our  fish,  and  were  ready  as  we  turned  our 
backs  to  make  away  with  it.  It  was  impossible  to  leave 
anything  eatable  for  a  single  instant.  Nothing  but  the 
sleight  of  hand  of  a  conjurer  could  equal  the  mystery  of 
their  stealing. 

After  buying  a  fourth  pack  animal  and  reshoeing  all 
our  horses,  we  got  our  outfit  into  shape  for  the  long, 
hard  drive  which  lay  before  us.  Every  ounce  of  super 
fluous  weight,  every  tool,  every  article  not  absolutely  es 
sential,  was  discarded  and  its  place  filled  with  food.  We 
stripped  ourselves  like  men  going  into  battle,  and  on  the 
third  day  lined  up  for  Teslin  Lake,  six  hundred  miles  to 
the  north. 


SIWASH     GRAVES 

Here  in  their  tiny  gayly  painted  homes 

They  sleep,  these  small  dead  people  of  the  streams, 

Their  names  unknown,  their  deeds  forgot, 

Their  by-gone  battles  lost  in  dreams. 

A  few  short  days  and  we  who  laugh 

Will  be  as  still,  will  lie  as  low 

As  utterly  in  dark  as  they  who  rot 

Here  where  the  roses  blow. 

They  fought,  and  loved,  and  toiled,  and  died, 

As  all  men  do,  and  all  men  must. 

Of  what  avail  ?  we  at  the  end 

Fall  quite  as  shapelessly  to  dust. 


105 


LINE    UP,    BRAVE    BOYS 

The  packs  are  on,  the  cinches  tight, 

The  patient  horses  wait, 

Upon  the  grass  the  frost  lies  white, 

The  dawn  is  gray  and  late. 

The  leader's  cry  rings  sharp  and  clear, 

The  campfires  smoulder  low ; 

Before  us  lies  a  shallow  mere, 

Beyond,  the  mountain  snow. 

"  Line  up,  Billy,  line  up,  boys, 
The  east  is  gray  with  coming  day, 
We  must  away,  we  cannot  stay. 
Hy-o,  hy-ak,  brave  boys  !  " 

Five  hundred  miles  behind  us  lie, 

As  many  more  ahead, 

Through  mud  and  mire  on  mountains  high 

Our  weary  feet  must  tread. 

So  one  by  one,  with  loyal  mind, 

The  horses  swing  to  place, 

The  strong  in  lead,  the  weak  behind, 

In  patient  plodding  grace. 

"Hy-o,  Buckskin,  brave  boy,  Joe  ! 
The  sun  is  high, 
The  hid  loons  cry : 
Hy-ak  —  away  !     Hy-o  !  " 


106 


CHAPTER  XII 

CROSSING    THE    BIG    DIVIDE 

OUR  stay  at  Hazleton  in  some  measure  removed  the 
charm  of  the  first  view.  The  people  were  all  so  mis 
erably  poor,  and  the  hosts  of  howling,  hungry  dogs  made 
each  day  more  distressing.  The  mountains  remained 
splendid  to  the  last;  and  as  we  made  our  start  I  looked 
back  upon  them  with  undiminished  pleasure. 

We  pitched  tent  at  night  just  below  the  ford,  and 
opposite  another  Indian  village  in  which  a  most  mourn 
ful  medicine  song  was  going  on,  timed  to  the  beating  of 
drums.  Dogs  joined  with  the  mourning  of  the  people 
with  cries  of  almost  human  anguish,  to  which  the  beat 
of  the  passionless  drum  added  solemnity,  and  a  sort  of 
inexorable  marching  rhythm.  It  seemed  to  announce 
pestilence  and  flood,  and  made  the  beautiful  earth  a 
place  of  hunger  and  despair. 

I  was  awakened  in  the  early  dawn  by  a  singular  cry 
repeated  again  and  again  on  the  farther  side  of  the  river. 
It  seemed  the  voice  of  a  woman  uttering  in  wailing 
chant  the  most  piercing  agony  of  despairing  love.  It 
ceased  as  the  sun  arose  and  was  heard  no  more.  It  was 
difficult  to  imagine  such  anguish  in  the  bustle  of  the 
bright  morning.  It  seemed  as  though  it  must  have  been 
an  illusion  —  a  dream  of  tragedy. 

107 


io8  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

In  the  course  of  an  hour's  travel  we  came  down  to 
the  sandy  bottom  of  the  river,  whereon  a  half-dozen  fine 
canoes  were  beached  and  waiting  for  us.  The  skilful 
natives  set  us  across  very  easily,  although  it  was  the 
maddest  and  wildest  of  all  the  rivers  we  had  yet  seen. 
We  crossed  the  main  river  just  above  the  point  at  which 
the  west  fork  enters.  The  horses  were  obliged  to  swim 
nearly  half  a  mile,  and  some  of  them  would  not  have 
reached  the  other  shore  had  it  not  been  for  the  Indians, 
who  held  their  heads  out  of  water  from  the  sterns  of  the 
canoes,  and  so  landed  them  safely  on  the  bar  just  oppo 
site  the  little  village  called  Kispyox,  which  is  also  the 
Indian  name  of  the  west  fork. 

The  trail  made  off  up  the  eastern  bank  of  this  river, 
which  was  as  charming  as  any  stream  ever  imagined  by 
a  poet.  The  water  was  gray-green  in  color,  swift  and 
active.  It  looped  away  in  most  splendid  curves,  through 
opulent  bottom  lands,  filled  with  wild  roses,  geranium 
plants,  and  berry  blooms.  Openings  alternated  with 
beautiful  woodlands  and  grassy  meadows,  while  over 
and  beyond  all  rose  the  ever  present  mountains  of  the 
coast  range,  deep  blue  and  snow-capped. 

There  was  no  strangeness  in  the  flora  —  on  the  con 
trary,  everything  seemed  familiar.  Hazel  bushes,  pop 
lars,  pines,  all  growth  was  amazingly  luxuriant.  The 
trail  was  an  Indian  path,  graceful  and  full  of  swinging 
curves.  We  had  passed  beyond  the  telegraph  wire  of 
the  old  trail. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  we  passed  some  five  or  six 
outfits  camped  on  a  beautiful  grassy  bank  overlooking  the 


Crossing  the  Big  Divide  109 

river,  and  forming  a  most  satisfying  picture.  The  bells 
on  the  grazing  horses  were  tinkling,  and  from  sparkling 
fires,  thin  columns  of  smoke  arose.  Some  of  the  young 
men  were  bathing,  while  others  were  washing  their 
shirts  in  the  sunny  stream.  There  was  a  cheerful 
sound  of  whistling  and  rattling  of  tinware  mingled  with 
the  sound  of  axes.  Nothing  could  be  more  jocund, 
more  typical,  of  the  young  men  and  the  trail.  It  was 
one  of  the  few  pleasant  camps  of  the  long  journey. 

It  was  raining  when  we  awoke,  but  before  noon  it 
cleared  sufficiently  to  allow  us  to  pack.  We  started  at 
one,  though  the  bushes  were  loaded  with  water,  and  had 
we  not  been  well  clothed  in  waterproof,  we  should 
have  been  drenched  to  the  bone.  We  rode  for  four 
hours  over  a  good  trail,  dodging  wet  branches  in  the 
pouring  rain.  It  lightened  at  five,  and  we  went  into 
camp  quite  dry  and  comfortable. 

We  unpacked  near  an  Indian  ranch  belonging  to  an 
old  man  and  his  wife,  who  came  up  at  once  to  see  us. 
They  were  good-looking,  rugged  old  souls,  like  powerful 
Japanese.  They  could  not  speak  Chinook,  and  we 
could  not  get  much  out  of  them.  The  old  wife  toted 
a  monstrous  big  salmon  up  the  hill  to  sell  to  us,  but  we 
had  more  fish  than  we  could  eat,  and  were  forced  to 
decline.  There  was  a  beautiful  spring  just  back  of  the 
cabin,  and  the  old  man  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  hav 
ing  us  get  our  water  from  it.  Neither  did  he  object  to 
our  horses  feeding  about  his  house,  where  there  was  very 
excellent  grass.  It  was  a  charming  camping-place, 
wild  flowers  made  the  trail  radiant  even  in  the  midst  of 


no          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

rain.  The  wild  roses  grew  in  clumps  of  sprays  as  high 
as  a  horse's  head. 

Just  before  we  determined  to  camp  we  had  passed 
three  or  four  outfits  grouped  together  on  the  sward  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  river.  As  we  rode  by,  one  of  the 
men  had  called  to  me  saying :  u  You  had  better  camp. 
It  is  thirty  miles  from  here  to  feed."  To  this  I  had 
merely  nodded,  giving  it  little  attention ;  but  now  as  we 
sat  around  our  campfire,  Burton  brought  the  matter  up 
again :  "  If  it  is  thirty  miles  to  feed,  we  will  have  to  get 
off  early  to-morrow  morning  and  make  as  big  a  drive  as 
we  can,  while  the  horses  are  fresh,  and  then  make  the 
latter  part  of  the  run  on  empty  stomachs." 

"  Oh,  I  think  they  were  just  talking  for  our  special 
benefit,"  I  replied. 

"  No,  they  were  in  earnest.  One  of  them  came  out 
to  see  me.  He  said  he  got  his  pointer  from  the  mule 
train  ahead  of  us.  Feed  is  going  to  be  very  scarce,  and 
the  next  run  is  fully  thirty  miles." 

I  insisted  it  could  not  be  possible  that  we  should  go 
at  once  from  the  luxuriant  pea-vine  and  bluejoint  into 
a  thirty-mile  stretch  of  country  where  nothing  grew. 
"There  must  be  breaks  in  the  forest  where  we  can 
graze  our  horses." 

It  rained  all  night  and  in  the  morning  it  seemed  as  if 
it  had  settled  into  a  week's  downpour.  However,  we 
were  quite  comfortable  with  plenty  of  fresh  salmon,  and 
were  not  troubled  except  with  the  thought  of  the  mud 
which  would  result  from  this  rainstorm.  We  were 
falling  steadily  behind  our  schedule  each  day,  but  the 


Crossing  the  Big  Divide  in 

horses  were  feeding  and  gaining  strength  — "  And 
when  we  hit  the  trail,  we  will  hit  it  hard,"  I  said  to 
Burton. 

It  was  Sunday.  The  day  was  perfectly  quiet  and 
peaceful,  like  a  rainy  Sunday  in  the  States.  The  old 
Indian  below  kept  to  his  house  all  day,  not  visiting  us. 
It  is  probable  that  he  was  a  Catholic.  The  dogs  came 
about  us  occasionally ;  strange,  solemn  creatures  that 
they  are,  they  had  the  persistence  of  hunger  and  the 
silence  of  burglars. 

It  was  raining  when  we  awoke  Monday  morning,  but 
we  were  now  restless  to  get  under  way.  We  could  not 
afford  to  spend  another  day  waiting  in  the  rain.  It  was 
gloomy  business  in  camp,  and  at  the  first  sign  of  lighten 
ing  sky  we  packed  up  and  started  promptly  at  twelve 
o'clock. 

That  ride  was  the  sternest  we  had  yet  experienced. 
It  was  like  swimming  in  a  sea  of  green  water.  The 
branches  sloshed  us  with  blinding  raindrops.  The 
mud  spurted  under  our  horses'  hoofs,  the  sky  was  gray 
and  drizzled  moisture,  and  as  we  rose  we  plunged  into 
ever  deepening  forests.  We  left  behind  us  all  hazel 
bushes,  alders,  wild  roses,  and  grasses.  Moss  was  on 
every  leaf  and  stump :  the  forest  became  savage,  sinister 
and  silent,  not  a  living  thing  but  ourselves  moved  or 
uttered  voice. 

This  world  grew  oppressive  with  its  unbroken  clear 
greens,  its  dripping  branches,  its  rotting  trees  ;  its  snake- 
like  roots  half  buried  in  the  earth  convinced  me  that  our 
warning  was  well-born.  At  last  we  came  into  upper 


112          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

heights  where  no  blade  of  grass  grew,  and  we  pushed  on 
desperately,  on  and  on,  hour  after  hour.  We  began  to 
suffer  with  the  horses,  being  hungry  and  cold  ourselves. 
We  plunged  into  bottomless  mudholes,  slid  down  slip 
pery  slopes  of  slate,  and  leaped  innumerable  fallen  logs 
of  fir.  The  sky  had  no  more  pity  than  the  mossy 
ground  and  the  desolate  forest.  It  was  a  mocking  land, 
a  land  of  green  things,  but  not  a  blade  of  grass  :  only 
austere  trees  and  noxious  weeds. 

During  the  day  we  met  an  old  man  so  loaded  down 
I  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  man,  woman,  or 
beast.  A  sort  of  cap  or  wide  cloth  band  went  across 
his  head,  concealing  his  forehead.  His  huge  pack 
loomed  over  his  shoulders,  and  as  he  walked,  using  two 
paddles  as  canes,  he  seemed  some  anomalous  four-footed 
beast  of  burden. 

As  he  saw  us  he  threw  off  his  pack  to  rest  and  stood 
erect,  a  sturdy  man  of  sixty,  with  short  bristling  hair 
framing  a  kindly  resolute  face.  He  was  very  light- 
hearted.  He  shook  hands  with  me,  saying,  "  Kla-how- 
ya,"  in  answer  to  my,  "  Kla-how-ya  six,"  which  is 
to  say,  "  How  are  you,  friend  ?  "  He  smiled,  pointed 
to  his  pack,  and  said, "  Hy-u  skin."  His  season  had  been 
successful  and  he  was  going  now  to  sell  his  catch.  A 
couple  of  dogs  just  behind  carried  each  twenty  pounds 
on  their  backs.  We  were  eating  lunch,  and  I  invited 
him  to  sit  and  eat.  He  took  a  seat  and  began  to  parcel 
out  the  food  in  two  piles. 

"  He  has  a  companion  coming,"  I  said  to  my  part 
ner.  In  a  few  moments  a  boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen 


Crossing  the  Big  Divide  113 

came  up,  carrying  a  pack  that  would  test  the  strength  of 
a  powerful  white  man.  He,  too,  threw  off  his  load  and 
at  a  word  from  the  old  man  took  a  seat  at  the  table. 
They  shared  exactly  alike.  It  was  evident  that  they 
were  father  and  son. 

A  few  miles  farther  on  we  met  another  family,  two 
men,  a  woman,  a  boy,  and  six  dogs,  all  laden  in  propor 
tion.  They  were  all  handsomer  than  the  Siwashes  of 
the  Fraser  River.  They  came  from  the  head-waters 
of  the  Nasse,  they  said.  They  could  speak  but  little 
Chinook  and  no  English  at  all.  When  I  asked  in  Chi 
nook,  "  How  far  is  it  to  feed  for  our  horses  ? "  the 
woman  looked  first  at  our  thin  animals,  then  at  us, 
and  shook  her  head  sorrowfully;  then  lifting  her  hands 
in  the  most  dramatic  gesture  she  half  whispered,  "  Si-ah, 
si-ah !  "  That  is  to  say,  "  Far,  very  far  !  " 

Both  these  old  people  seemed  very  kind  to  their  dogs, 
which  were  fat  and  sleek  and  not  related  to  those  I  had 
seen  in  Hazleton.  When  the  old  man  spoke  to  them, 
his  voice  was  gentle  and  encouraging.  At  the  word 
they  all  took  up  the  line  of  march  and  went  off  down 
the  hill  toward  the  Hudson  Bay  store,  there  to  remain 
during  the  summer.  We  pushed  on,  convinced  by  the 
old  woman's  manner  that  our  long  trail  was  to  be  a 
gloomy  one. 

Night  began  to  settle  over  us  at  last,  adding  the  final 
touches  of  uncertainty  and  horror  to  the  gloom.  We 
pushed  on  with  necessary  cruelty,  forcing  the  tired 
horses  to  their  utmost,  searching  every  ravine  and  every 
slope  for  a  feed ;  but  only  ferns  and  strange  green  poi- 


H4          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

sonous  plants  could  be  seen.  We  were  angling  up  the 
side  of  the  great  ridge  which  separated  the  west  fork  of 
the  Skeena  River  from  the  middle  fork.  It  was  evident 
that  we  must  cross  this  high  divide  and  descend  into  the 
valley  of  the  middle  fork  before  we  could  hope  to  feed 
our  horses. 

However,  just  as  darkness  was  beginning  to  come 
on,  we  came  to  an  almost  impassable  slough  in  the 
trail,  where  a  small  stream  descended  into  a  little  flat 
marsh  and  morass.  This  had  been  used  as  a  camp 
ing-place  by  others,  and  we  decided  to  camp,  because 
to  travel,  even  in  the  twilight,  was  dangerous  to  life 
and  limb. 

It  was  a  gloomy  and  depressing  place  to  spend  the 
night.  There  was  scarcely  level  ground  enough  to 
receive  our  camp.  The  wood  was  soggy  and  green.  In 
order  to  reach  the  marsh  we  were  forced  to  lead  our 
horses  one  by  one  through  a  dangerous  mudhole,  and  once 
through  this  they  entered  upon  a  quaking  bog,  out  of 
which  grew  tufts  of  grass  which  had  been  gnawed  to  the 
roots  by  the  animals  which  had  preceded  them;  only 
a  rank  bottom  of  dead  leaves  of  last  year's  growth  was 
left  for  our  tired  horses.  I  was  deeply  anxious  for  fear 
they  would  crowd  into  the  central  bog  in  their  efforts  to 
reach  the  uncropped  green  blades  which  grew  out  of 
reach  in  the  edge  of  the  water.  They  were  ravenous 
with  hunger  after  eight  hours  of  hard  labor. 

Our  clothing  was  wet  to  the  inner  threads,  and  we 
were  tired  and  muddy  also,  but  our  thoughts  were  on 
the  horses  rather  than  upon  ourselves.  We  soon  had  a 


Crossing  the  Big  Divide  115 

fire  going  and  some  hot  supper,  and  by  ten  o'clock  were 
stretched  out  in  our  beds  for  the  night. 

I  have  never  in  my  life  experienced  a  gloomier  or 
more  distressing  camp  on  the  trail.  My  bed  was  dry 
and  warm,  but  I  could  not  forget  our  tired  horses  grub 
bing  about  in  the  chilly  night  on  that  desolate  marsh. 


A    CHILD    OF    THE    SUN 

Give  me  the  sun  and  the  sky, 

The  wide  sky.     Let  it  blaze  with  light, 

Let  it  burn  with  heat  —  I  care  not. 

The  sun  is  the  blood  of  my  heart, 

The  wind  of  the  plain  my  breath. 

No  woodsman  am  I.     My  eyes  are  set 

For  the  wide  low  lines.     The  level  rim 

Of  the  prairie  land  is  mine. 

The  semi-gloom  of  the  pointed  firs, 

The  sleeping  darks  of  the  mountain  spruce, 

Are  prison  and  poison  to  such  as  I. 

In  the  forest  I  long  for  the  rose  of  the  plain, 

In  the  dark  of  the  firs  I  die. 


117 


IN    THE    GRASS 

O  to  lie  in  long  grasses  ! 

O  to  dream  of  the  plain  ! 

Where  the  west  wind  sings  as  it  passes 

A  weird  and  unceasing  refrain ; 

Where  the  rank  grass  wallows  and  tosses, 

And  the  plains'  ring  dazzles  the  eye ; 

Where  hardly  a  silver  cloud  bosses 

The  flashing  steel  arch  of  the  sky. 

To  watch  the  gay  gulls  as  they  flutter 
Like  snowflakes  and  fall  down  the  sky, 
To  swoop  in  the  deeps  of  the  hollows, 
Where  the  crow's-foot  tosses  awry ; 
And  gnats  in  the  lee  of  the  thickets 
Are  swirling  like  waltzers  in  glee 
To  the  harsh,  shrill  creak  of  the  crickets 
And  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  bee. 

O  far-off  plains  of  my  west  land  ! 
O  lands  of  winds  and  the  free, 
Swift  deer  —  my  mist-clad  plain  ! 
From  my  bed  in  the  heart  of  the  forest, 
From  the  clasp  and  the  girdle  of  pain 
Your  light  through  my  darkness  passes ; 
To  your  meadows  in  dreaming  I  fly 
To  plunge  in  the  deeps  of  your  grasses, 
To  bask  in  the  light  of  your  sky  ! 


118 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    SILENT    FORESTS    OF    THE    DREAD    SKEENA 

WE  were  awake  early  and  our  first  thought  was  of 
our  horses.  They  were  quite  safe  and  cropping  away 
on  the  dry  stalks  with  patient  diligence.  We  saddled 
up  and  pushed  on,  for  food  was  to  be  had  only  in  the 
valley,  whose  blue  and  white  walls  we  could  see  far 
ahead  of  us.  After  nearly  six  hours'  travel  we  came  out 
of  the  forest,  out  into  the  valley  of  the  middle  fork  of 
the  Skeena,  into  sunlight  and  grass  in  abundance,  where 
we  camped  till  the  following  morning,  giving  the  horses 
time  to  recuperate. 

We  were  done  with  smiling  valleys  —  that  I  now 
perceived.  We  were  coming  nearer  to  the  sub-arctic 
country,  grim  and  desolate.  The  view  was  magnifi 
cent,  but  the  land  seemed  empty  and  silent  except  of 
mosquitoes,  of  which  there  were  uncounted  millions. 
On  our  right  just  across  the  river  rose  the  white  peaks 
of  the  Kisgagash  Mountains.  Snow  was  still  lying  in 
the  gullies  only  a  few  rods  above  us. 

The  horses  fed  right  royally  and  soon  forgot  the 
dearth  of  the  big  divide.  As  we  were  saddling  up  to 
move  the  following  morning,  several  outfits  came  trail 
ing  down  into  the  valley,  glad  as  we  had  been  of  the 

119 


I2O          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

splendid  field  of  grass.  They  were  led  by  a  grizzled 
old  American,  who  cursed  the  country  with  fine  fervor. 

"  I  can  stand  any  kind  of  a  country,"  said  he, 
u  except  one  where  there's  no  feed.  And  as  near's  I 
can  find  out  we're  in  fer  hell's  own  time  fer  feed  till  we 
reach  them  prairies  they  tell  about." 

After  leaving  this  flat,  we  had  the  Kuldo  (a  swift  and 
powerful  river)  to  cross,  but  we  found  an  old  Indian  and 
a  girl  camped  on  the  opposite  side  waiting  for  us.  The 
daughter,  a  comely  child  about  sixteen  years  of  age, 
wore  a  calico  dress  and  "  store"  shoes.  She  was  a  self- 
contained  little  creature,  and  clearly  in  command  of  the 
boat,  and  very  efficient.  It  was  no  child's  play  to  put 
the  light  canoe  across  such  a  stream,  but  the  old  man, 
with  much  shouting  and  under  command  of  the  girl, 
succeeded  in  crossing  six  times,  carrying  us  and  our 
baggage.  As  we  were  being  put  across  for  the  last  time 
it  became  necessary  for  some  one  to  pull  the  canoe 
through  the  shallow  water,  and  the  little  girl,  without 
hesitation,  leaped  out  regardless  of  new  shoes,  and  tugged 
at  the  rope  while  the  old  man  poled  at  the  stern,  and  so 
we  were  landed. 

As  a  recognition  of  her  resolution  I  presented  her 
with  a  dollar,  which  I  tried  to  make  her  understand  was 
her  own,  and  not  to  be  given  to  her  father.  Up  to  that 
moment  she  had  been  very  shy  and  rather  sullen,  but 
my  present  seemed  to  change  her  opinion  of  us,  and  she 
became  more  genial  at  once.  She  was  short  and  sturdy, 
and  her  little  footsteps  in  the  trail  were  strangely 
suggestive  of  civilization. 


The  Silent  Forests  of  the  Dread  Skeena     121 

After  leaving  the  river  we  rose  sharply  for  about  three 
miles.  This  brought  us  to  the  first  notice  on  the  trail 
which  was  signed  by  the  road-gang,  an  ambiguous 
scrawl  to  the  effect  that  feed  was  to  be  very  scarce  for  a 
long,  long  way,  and  that  we  should  feed  our  horses 
before  going  forward.  The  mystery  of  the  sign  lay  in 
the  fact  that  no  feed  was  in  sight,  and  if  it  referred 
back  to  the  flat,  then  it  was  in  the  nature  of  an  Irish 
bull. 

There  was  a  fork  in  the  trail  here,  and  another  notice 
informed  us  that  the  trail  to  the  right  ran  to  the  Indian 
village  of  Kuldo.  Rain  threatened,  and  as  it  was  late 
and  no  feed  promised,  I  determined  to  camp.  Turning 
to  the  right  down  a  tremendously  steep  path  (the  horses 
sliding  on  their  haunches),  we  came  to  an  old  Indian 
fishing  village  built  on  a  green  shelf  high  above  the 
roaring  water  of  the  Skeena. 

The  people  all  came  rushing  out  to  see  us,  curious 
but  very  hospitable.  Some  of  the  children  began  pluck 
ing  grasses  for  the  horses,  but  being  unaccustomed  to 
animals  of  any  kind,  not  one  would  approach  within 
reach  of  them.  I  tried,  by  patting  Ladrone  and  putting 
his  head  over  my  shoulder,  to  show  them  how  gentle  he 
was,  but  they  only  smiled  and  laughed  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  Yes,  that  is  all  right  for  you^  but  we  are  afraid." 
They  were  all  very  good-looking,  smiling  folk,  but 
poorly  dressed.  They  seemed  eager  to  show  us  where 
the  best  grass  grew,  demanded  nothing  of  us,  begged 
nothing,  and  did  not  attempt  to  overcharge  us.  There 
were  some  eight  or  ten  families  in  the  canon,  and  their 


122          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

houses  were  wretched  shacks,  mere  lodges  of  slabs  with 
vents  in  the  peak.  So  far  as  they  could,  they  conformed 
to  the  ways  of  white  men. 

Here  they  dwell  by  this  rushing  river  in  the  midst  of 
a  gloomy  and  trackless  forest,  far  removed  from  any 
other  people  of  any  sort.  They  were  but  a  handful  of 
human  souls.  As  they  spoke  little  Chinook  and  almost 
no  English,  it  was  difficult  to  converse  with  them. 
They  had  lost  the  sign  language  or  seemed  not  to  use  it. 
Their  village  was  built  here  because  the  canon  below 
offered  a  capital  place  for  fishing  and  trapping,  and  the 
principal  duty  of  the  men  was  to  watch  the  salmon  trap 
dancing  far  below.  For  the  rest  they  hunt  wild  animals 
and  sell  furs  to  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  at  Hazleton, 
which  is  their  metropolis. 

They  led  us  to  the  edge  of  the  village  and  showed  us 
where  the  road-gang  had  set  their  tent,  and  we  soon  had 
a  fire  going  in  our  little  stove,  which  was  the  amaze 
ment  and  delight  of  a  circle  of  men,  women,  and  chil 
dren,  but  they  were  not  intrusive  and  asked  for  nothing. 

Later  in  the  evening  the  old  man  and  the  girl  who 
had  helped  to  ferry  us  across  the  Kuldo  came  down  the 
hill  and  joined  the  circle  of  our  visitors. 

She  smiled  as  we  greeted  her  and  so  did  the  father, 
who  assured  me  he  was  the  ty-ee  (boss)  of  the  village, 
which  he  seemed  to  be. 

After  our  supper  we  distributed  some  fruit  among  the 
children,  and  among  the  old  women  some  hot  coffee 
with  sugar,  which  was  a  keen  delight  to  them.  Our 
desire  to  be  friendly  was  deeply  appreciated  by  these 


The  Silent  Forests  of  the  Dread  Skeena     123 

poor  people,  and  our  wish  to  do  them  good  was  greater 
than  our  means.  The  way  was  long  before  us  and  we 
could  not  afford  to  give  away  our  supplies.  How  they 
live  in  winter  I  cannot  understand ;  probably  they  go 
down  the  river  to  Hazleton. 

I  began  to  dread  the  dark  green  dripping  firs  which 
seemed  to  encompass  us  like  some  vast  army.  They 
chilled  me,  oppressed  me.  Moreover,  I  was  lame  in 
every  joint  from  the  toil  of  crossing  rivers,  climbing 
steep  hills,  and  dragging  at  cinches.  I  had  walked  down 
every  hill  and  in  most  cases  on  the  sharp  upward  slopes 
in  order  to  relieve  Ladrone  of  my  weight. 

As  we  climbed  back  to  our  muddy  path  next  day,  we 
were  filled  with  dark  forebodings  of  the  days  to  come. 
We  climbed  all  day,  keeping  the  bench  high  above  the 
river.  The  land  continued  silent.  It  was  a  wilderness 
of  firs  and  spruce  pines.  It  was  like  a  forest  of  bronze. 
Nothing  but  a  few  rose  bushes  and  some  leek-like  plants 
rose  from  the  mossy  floor,  on  which  the  sun  fell,  weak 
and  pale,  in  rare  places.  No  beast  or  bird  uttered 
sound  save  a  fishing  eagle  swinging  through  the  canon 
above  the  roaring  water. 

In  the  gloom  the  voice  of  the  stream  became  a  raucous 
roar.  On  every  side  cold  and  white  and  pitiless  the 
snowy  peaks  lifted  above  the  serrate  rim  of  the  forest. 

Life  was  scant  here.  In  all  the  mighty  spread  of 
forest  between  the  continental  divide  on  the  east  and  the 
coast  range  at  the  west  there  are  few  living  things,  and 
these  few  necessarily  centre  in  the  warm  openings  on 
the  banks  of  the  streams  where  the  sunlight  falls  or  in 


124          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

the  high  valleys  above  the  firs.  There  are  no  serpents 
and  no  insects. 

As  we  mounted  day  by  day  we  crossed  dozens  of  swift 
little  streams  cold  and  gray  with  silt.  Our  rate  of  speed 
was  very  low.  One  of  our  horses  became  very  weak 
and  ill,  evidently  poisoned,  and  we  were  forced  to  stop 
often  to  rest  him.  All  the  horses  were  weakening  day 
by  day. 

Toward  the  middle  of  the  third  day,  after  crossing  a 
stream  which  came  from  the  left,  the  trail  turned  as  if 
to  leave  the  Skeena  behind.  We  were  mighty  well 
pleased  and  climbed  sharply  and  with  great  care  of  our 
horses  till  we  reached  a  little  meadow  at  the  summit, 
very  tired  and  disheartened,  for  the  view  showed  only 
other  peaks  and  endless  waves  of  spruce  and  fir.  We 
rode  on  under  drizzling  skies  and  dripping  trees.  There 
was  little  sunshine  and  long  lines  of  heavily  weighted 
gray  clouds  came  crawling  up  the  valley  from  the  sea  to 
break  in  cold  rain  over  the  summits. 

The  horses  again  grew  hungry  and  weak,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  use  great  care  in  crossing  the  streams.  We 
were  lame  and  sore  with  the  toil  of  the  day,  and  what 
was  more  depressing  found  ourselves  once  more  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Skeena,  where  only  an  occasional  bunch 
of  bluejoint  could  be  found.  The  constant  strain  of 
watching  the  horses  and  guiding  them  through  the  mud 
began  to  tell  on  us  both.  There  was  now  no  moment 
of  ease,  no  hour  of  enjoyment.  We  had  set  ourselves 
grimly  to  the  task  of  bringing  our  horses  through  alive. 
We  no  longer  rode,  we  toiled  in  silence,  leading  our 


The  Silent  Forests  of  the  Dread  Skeena     125 

saddle-horses  on  which  we  had  packed  a  part  of  our 
outfit  to  relieve  the  sick  and  starving  packhorses. 

On  the  fourth  day  we  took  a  westward  shoot  from 
the  river,  and  following  the  course  of  a  small  stream 
again  climbed  heavily  up  the  slope.  Our  horses  were 
now  so  weak  we  could  only  climb  a  few  rods  at  a  time 
without  rest.  '  But  at  last,  just  as  night  began  to  fall,  we 
came  upon  a  splendid  patch  of  bluejoint,  knee-deep  and 
rich.  It  was  high  on  the  mountain  side,  on  a  slope  so 
steep  that  the  horses  could  not  lie  down,  so  steep  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  set  our  tent.  We  could  not 
persuade  ourselves  to  pass  it,  however,  and  so  made  the 
best  of  it.  Everywhere  we  could  see  white  mountains, 
to  the  south,  to  the  west,  to  the  east. 

"  Now  we  have  left  the  Skeena  Valley,"  said  Burton. 

"  Yes,  we  have  seen  the  last  of  the  Skeena,"  I  re 
plied,  "  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  I  never  want  to  see  that 
gray-green  flood  again." 

A  part  of  the  time  that  evening  we  spent  in  picking 
the  thorns  of  deviPs-club  out  of  our  hands.  This 
strange  plant  I  had  not  seen  before,  and  do  not  care  to 
see  it  again.  In  plunging  through  the  mudholes  we 
spasmodically  clutched  these  spiny  things.  Ladrone 
nipped  steadily  at  the  bunch  of  leaves  which  grew  at 
the  top  of  the  twisted  stalk.  Again  we  plunged  down 
into  the  cold  green  forest,  following  a  stream  whose 
current  ran  to  the  northeast.  This  brought  us  once 
again  to  the  bank  of  the  dreaded  Skeena.  The  trail 
was  "  punishing,"  and  the  horses  plunged  and  lunged 
all  day  through  the  mud,  over  logs,  stones,  and  roots. 


126  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Our  nerves  quivered  with  the  torture  of  piloting  our 
mistrusted  desperate  horses  through  these  awful  pit 
falls.  We  were  still  in  the  region  of  ferns  and 
devil's-club. 

We  allowed  no  feed  to  escape  us.  At  any  hour  of 
the  day,  whenever  we  found  a  bunch  of  grass,  no 
matter  if  it  were  not  bigger  than  a  broom,  we  stopped 
for  the  horses  to  graze  it  and  so  we  kept  them  on 
their  feet. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we  climbed  to  a  low, 
marshy  lake  where  an  Indian  hunter  was  camped.  He 
said  we  would  find  feed  on  another  lake  some  miles  up, 
and  we  pushed  on,  wallowing  through  mud  and  water  of 
innumerable  streams,  each  moment  in  danger  of  leaving 
a  horse  behind.  I  walked  nearly  all  day,  for  it  was  tor 
ture  to  me  as  well  as  to  Ladrone  to  ride  him  over  such 
a  trail.  Three  of  our  horses  now  showed  signs  of 
poisoning,  two  of  them  walked  with  a  sprawling  action 
of  the  fore  legs,  their  eyes  big  and  glassy.  One  was 
too  weak  to  carry  anything  more  than  his  pack-saddle, 
and  our  going  had  a  sort  of  sullen  desperation  in  it. 
Our  camps  were  on  the  muddy  ground,  without  comfort 
or  convenience. 

Next  morning,  as  I  swung  into  the  saddle  and  started 
at  the  head  of  my  train,  Ladrone  threw  out  his  nose  with 
a  sharp  indrawn  squeal  of  pain.  At  first  I  paid  little 
attention  to  it,  but  it  came  again  —  and  then  I  noticed 
a  weakness  in  his  limbs.  I  dismounted  and  examined 
him  carefully.  He,  too,  was  poisoned  and  attacked  by 
spasms.  It  was  a  sorrowful  thing  to  see  my  proud  gray 


The  Silent  Forests  of  the  Dread  Skeena     127 

reduced  to  this  condition.  His  eyes  were  dilated  and 
glassy  and  his  joints  were  weak.  We  could  not  stop, 
we  could  not  wait,  we  must  push  on  to  feed  and  open 
ground ;  and  so  leading  him  carefully  I  resumed  our  slow 
march. 

But  at  last,  just  when  it  seemed  as  though  we  could 
not  go  any  farther  with  our  suffering  animals,  we  came 
out  of  the  poisonous  forest  upon  a  broad  grassy  bottom 
where  a  stream  was  flowing  to  the  northwest.  We 
raised  a  shout  of  joy,  for  it  seemed  this  must  be  a  branch 
of  the  Nasse.  If  so,  we  were  surely  out  of  the  clutches 
of  the  Skeena.  This  bottom  was  the  first  dry  and  level 
ground  we  had  seen  since  leaving  the  west  fork,  and 
the  sun  shone.  "  Old  man,  the  worst  of  our  trail  is 
over,"  I  shouted  to  my  partner.  "  The  land  looks  more 
open  to  the  north.  We're  coming  to  that  plateau  they 
told  us  of." 

Oh,  how  sweet,  fine,  and  sunny  the  short  dry  grass 
seemed  to  us  after  our  long  toilsome  stay  in  the  sub 
aqueous  gloom  of  the  Skeena  forests  !  We  seemed  about 
to  return  to  the  birds  and  the  flowers. 

Ladrone  was  very  ill,  but  I  fed  him  some  salt  mixed 
with  lard,  and  after  a  doze  in  the  sun  he  began  to  nibble 
grass  with  the  others,  and  at  last  stretched  out  on  the 
warm  dry  sward  to  let  the  glorious  sun  soak  into  his 
blood.  It  was  a  joyous  thing  to  us  to  see  the  faithful 
ones  revelling  in  the  healing  sunlight,  their  stomachs 
filled  at  last  with  sweet  rich  forage.  We  were  dirty, 
ragged,  and  lame,  and  our  hands  were  calloused  and 
seamed  with  dirt,  but  we  were  strong  and  hearty. 


128  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

We  were  high  in  the  mountains  here.  Those  little 
marshy  lakes  and  slow  streams  showed  that  we  were  on 
a  divide,  and  to  our  minds  could  be  no  other  than  the 
head-waters  of  the  Nasse,  which  has  a  watershed  of  its 
own  to  the  sea.  We  believed  the  worst  of  our  trip  to 
be  over. 


THE    FAITHFUL    BRONCOS 

They  go  to  certain  death  —  to  freeze, 
To  grope  their  way  through  blinding  snow, 
To  starve  beneath  the  northern  trees  — 
Their  curse  on  us  who  made  them  go ! 
They  trust  and  we  betray  the  trust ; 
They  humbly  look  to  us  for  keep. 
The  rifle  crumbles  them  to  dust, 
And  we  —  have  hardly  grace  to  weep 
As  they  line  up  to  die. 


THE    WHISTLING    MARMOT 

On  mountains  cold  and  bold  and  high, 

Where  only  golden  eagles  fly, 

He  builds  his  home  against  the  sky. 

Above  the  clouds  he  sits  and  whines, 
The  morning  sun  about  him  shines  ; 
Rivers  loop  below  in  shining  lines. 

No  wolf  or  cat  may  find  him  there, 
That  winged  corsair  of  the  air, 
The  eagle,  is  his  only  care. 

He  sees  the  pink  snows  slide  away, 

He  sees  his  little  ones  at  play, 

And  peace  fills  out  each  summer  day. 

In  winter,  safe  within  his  nest, 
He  eats  his  winter  store  with  zest, 
And  takes  his  young  ones  to  his  breast. 


130 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    GREAT    STIKEEN    DIVIDE 

AT  about  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning,  as  we 
were  about  to  line  up  for  our  journey,  two  men  came 
romping  down  the  trail,  carrying  packs  on  their  backs 
and  taking  long  strides.  They  were  "  hitting  the  high 
places  in  the  scenery,"  and  seemed  to  be  entirely  ab 
sorbed  in  the  work.  I  hailed  them  and  they  turned 
out  to  be  two  young  men  from  Duluth,  Minnesota. 
They  were  without  hats,  very  brown,  very  hairy,  and 
very  much  disgusted  with  the  country. 

For  an  hour  we  discussed  the  situation.  They  were 
the  first  white  men  we  had  met  on  the  entire  journey, 
almost  the  only  returning  footsteps,  and  were  able  to 
give  us  a  little  information  of  the  trail,  but  only  for 
a  distance  of  about  forty  miles;  beyond  this  they  had 
not  ventured. 

"We  left  our  outfits  back  here  on  a  little  lake  — 
maybe  you  saw  our  Indian  guide  —  and  struck  out 
ahead  to  see  if  we  could  find  those  splendid  prairies 
they  were  telling  us  about,  where  the  caribou  and  the 
moose  were  so  thick  you  couldn't  miss  'em.  We've 
been  forty  miles  up  the  trail.  It's  all  a  climb,  and  the 
very  worst  yet.  You'll  come  finally  to  a  high  snowy 


132  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

divide  with  nothing  but  mountains  on  every  side. 
There  is  no  prairie;  it's  all  a  lie,  and  we're  going  back 
to  Hazleton  to  go  around  by  way  of  Skagway.  Have 
you  any  idea  where  we  are  ? " 

"  Why,  certainly ;  we're  in  British  Columbia." 

"  But  where  ?     On  what  stream  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  detail,"  I  replied.  "  I  consider  the 
little  camp  on  which  we  are  camped  one  of  the  head 
waters  of  the  Nasse ;  but  we're  not  on  the  Telegraph 
Trail  at  all.  We're  more  nearly  in  line  with  the  old 
Dease  Lake  Trail." 

"Why  is  it,  do  you  suppose,  that  the  road-gang 
ahead  of  us  haven't  left  a  single  sign,  not  even  a  word 
as  to  where  we  are  ?  " 

"  Maybe  they  can't  write,"  said  my  partner. 

"  Perhaps  they  don't  know  where  they  are  at,  them 
selves,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  that's  exactly  the  way  it  looks  to  me." 

"  Are  there  any  outfits  ahead  of  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  old  Bob  Borlan's  about  two  days  up  the  slope 
with  his  train  of  mules,  working  like  a  slave  to  get 
through.  They're  all  getting  short  of  grub  and  losing 
a  good  many  horses.  You'll  have  to  work  your  way 
through  with  great  care,  or  you'll  lose  a  horse  or  two 
in  getting  from  here  to  the  divide." 

u  Well,  this  won't  do.  So-long,  boys,"  said  one  of  the 
young  fellows,  and  they  started  off  with  immense  vigor, 
followed  by  their  handsome  dogs,  and  we  lined  up  once 
more  with  stern  faces,  knowing  now  that  a  terrible  trail 
for  at  least  one  hundred  miles  was  before  us.  There 


The  Great  Stikeen  Divide  133 

was  no  thought  of  retreat,  however.  We  had  set  our 
feet  to  this  journey,  and  we  determined  to  go. 

After  a  few  hours'  travel  we  came  upon  the  grassy 
shore  of  another  little  lake,  where  the  bells  of  several 
outfits  were  tinkling  merrily.  On  the  bank  of  a  swift 
little  river  setting  out  of  the  lake,  a  couple  of  tents 
stood,  and  shirts  were  flapping  from  the  limbs  of  near 
by  willows.  The  owners  were  "  The  Man  from  Chi 
huahua,"  his  partner,  the  blacksmith,  and  the  two  young 
men  from  Manchester,  New  Hampshire,  who  had  started 
from  Ashcroft  as  markedly  tenderfoot  as  any  men  could 
be.  They  had  been  lambasted  and  worried  into  perfect 
efficiency  as  packers  and  trailers,  and  were  entitled  to 
respect — even  the  respect  of  "The  Man  from  Chi 
huahua." 

They  greeted  us  with  jovial  outcry. 

"  Hullo,  strangers  !    Where  ye  think  you're  goin'  ? " 

"  Goin'  crazy,"  replied  Burton. 

«  You  look  it,"  said  Bill. 

"  By  God,  we  was  all  sure  crazy  when  we  started  on 
this  damn  trail,"  remarked  the  old  man.  He  was  in  bad 
humor  on  account  of  his  horses,  two  of  which  were 
suffering  from  poisoning.  When  anything  touched  his 
horses,  he  was  "  plum  irritable." 

He  came  up  to  me  very  soberly.  u  Have  you  any 
idee  where  we're  at  ? " 

"  Yes  —  we're  on  the  head-waters  of  the  Nasse." 

"  Are  we  on  the  Telegraph  Trail  ?  " 

"  No ;  as  near  as  I  can  make  out  we're  away  to  the 
right  of  the  telegraph  crossing.'3 


134  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Thereupon  we  compared  maps.  "  It's  mighty  little 
use  to  look  at  maps  —  they're  all  drew  by  guess  —  an'  — 
by  God,  anyway,"  said  the  old  fellow,  as  he  ran  his 
grimy  forefinger  over  the  red  line  which  represented  the 
trail.  "We've  been  a  shoutin'  hell  words  ever  since  we 
crossed  the  Skeeny  —  I  figure  it  we're  on  the  old  Dease 
Lake  Trail." 

To  this  we  all  agreed  at  last,  but  our  course  thereafter 
was  by  no  means  clear. 

"  If  we  took  the  old  Dease  Lake  Trail  we're  three 
hundred  miles  from  Telegraph  Creek  yit — an' some 
body's  goin'  to  be  hungry  before  we  get  in,"  said  the  old 
trailer.  "  I'd  like  to  camp  here  for  a  few  days  and  feed 
up  my  horses,  but  it  ain't  safe  —  we  got  'o  keep  movin'. 
We've  been  on  this  damn  trail  long  enough,  and  besides 
grub  is  gittin'  lighter  all  the  time." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  trail  ?  "  asked  Burton. 

"  I've  been  on  the  trail  all  my  life,"  he  replied,  "an'  I 
never  was  in  such  a  pizen,  empty  no-count  country  in 
my  life.  Wasn't  that  big  divide  hell  ?  Did  ye  ever  see 
the  beat  of  that  fer  a  barren  ?  No  more  grass  than  a 
cellar.  Might  as  well  camp  in  a  cistern.  I  wish  I 
could  lay  hands  on  the  feller  that  called  this  c  The  Prairie 
Route  '  —  they'd  sure  be  a  dog-fight  right  here." 

The  old  man  expressed  the  feeling  of  those  of  us  who 
were  too  shy  and  delicate  of  speech  to  do  it  justice,  and 
we  led  him  on  to  most  satisfying  blasphemy  of  the  land 
and  the  road-gang. 

"Yes,  there's  that  road-gang  sent  out  to  put  this 
trail  into  shape  —  what  have  they  done  ?  You'd 


The  Great  Stikeen  Divide  135 

think  they  couldn't  read  or  write  —  not  a  word  to  help 
us  out." 

Partner  and  I  remained  in  camp  all  the  afternoon  and 
all  the  next  day,  although  our  travelling  companions 
packed  up  and  moved  out  the  next  morning.  We  felt 
the  need  of  a  day's  freedom  from  worry,  and  our  horses 
needed  feed  and  sunshine. 

Oh,  the  splendor  of  the  sun,  the  fresh  green  grass,  the 
rippling  water  of  the  river,  the  beautiful  lake  !  And 
what  joy  it  was  to  see  our  horses  feed  and  sleep.  They 
looked  distressingly  thin  and  poor  without  their  saddles. 
Ladrone  was  still  weak  in  the  ankle  joints  and  the  arch 
had  gone  out  of  his  neck,  while  faithful  Bill,  who  never 
murmured  or  complained,  had  a  glassy  stare  in  his  eyes, 
the  lingering  effects  of  poisoning.  The  wind  rose  in  the 
afternoon,  bringing  to  us  a  sound  of  moaning  tree-tops, 
and  somehow  it  seemed  to  be  an  augury  of  better  things 
—  seemed  to  prophesy  a  fairer  and  dryer  country  to  the 
north  of  us.  The  singing  of  the  leaves  went 'to  my 
heart  with  a  hint  of  home,  and  I  remembered  with  a 
start  how  absolutely  windless  the  sullen  forest  of  the 
Skeena  had  been. 

Near  by  a  dam  was  built  across  the  river,  and  a  fish 
ing  trap  made  out  of  willows  was  set  in  the  current. 
Piles  of  caribou  hair  showed  that  the  Indians  found 
game  in  the  autumn.  We  took  time  to  explore  some 
old  fishing  huts  filled  with  curious  things,  —  skins, 
toboggans,  dog-collars,  cedar  ropes,  and  many  other  traps 
of  small  value  to  anybody.  Most  curious  of  all  we 
found  some  flint-lock  muskets  made  exactly  on  the 


136  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

models  of  one  hundred  years  ago,  but  dated  1883  !  It 
seemed  impossible  that  guns  of  such  ancient  models 
should  be  manufactured  up  to  the  present  date;  but  there 
they  were  all  carefully  marked  "London,  1883." 

It  was  a  long  day  of  rest  and  regeneration.  We  took 
a  bath  in  the  clear,  cold  waters  of  the  stream,  washed 
our  clothing  and  hung  it  up  to  dry,  beat  the  mud  out  of 
our  towels,  and  so  made  ready  for  the  onward  march. 
We  should  have  stayed  longer,  but  the  ebbing  away  of 
our  grub  pile  made  us  apprehensive.  To  return  was 
impossible. 


THE    CLOUDS 

Circling  the  mountains  the  gray  clouds  go 
Heavy  with  storms  as  a  mother  with  child, 
Seeking  release  from  their  burden  of  snow 
With  calm  slow  motion  they  cross  the  wild  — 
Stately  and  sombre,  they  catch  and  cling 
To  the  barren  crags  of  the  peaks  in  the  west, 
Weary  with  waiting,  and  mad  for  rest. 


'37 


THE    GREAT    STIKEEN    DIVIDE 

A  land  of  mountains  based  in  hills  of  fir, 

Empty,  lone,  and  cold.     A  land  of  streams 

Whose  roaring  voices  drown  the  whirr 

Of  aspen  leaves,  and  fill  the  heart  with  dreams 

Of  dearth  and  death.     The  peaks  are  stern  and  white 

The  skies  above  are  grim  and  gray, 

And  the  rivers  cleave  their  sounding  way 

Through  endless  forests  dark  as  night, 

Toward  the  ocean's  far-off  line  of  spray. 


138 


CHAPTER   XV 

IN    THE    COLD    GREEN    MOUNTAINS 

THE  Nasse  River,  like  the  Skeena  and  the  Stikeen, 
rises  in  the  interior  mountains,  and  flows  in  a  south 
westerly  direction,  breaking  through  the  coast  range 
into  the  Pacific  Ocean,  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  the 
Stikeen. 

It  is  a  much  smaller  stream  than  the  Skeena,  which 
is,  moreover,  immensely  larger  than  the  maps  show. 
We  believed  we  were  about  to  pass  from  the  water 
shed  of  the  Nasse  to  the  east  fork  of  the  Iskoot,  on 
which  those  far-shining  prairies  were  said  to  lie,  with 
their  flowery  meadows  rippling  under  the  west  wind. 
If  we  could  only  reach  that  mystical  plateau,  our  horses 
would  be  safe  from  all  disease. 

We  crossed  the  Cheweax,  a  branch  of  the  Nasse,  and 
after  climbing  briskly  to  the  northeast  along  the  main 
branch  we  swung  around  over  a  high  wooded  hog-back, 
and  made  off  up  the  valley  along  the  north  and  lesser 
fork.  We  climbed  all  day,  both  of  us  walking,  leading 
our  horses,  with  all  our  goods  distributed  with  great  care 
over  the  six  horses.  It  was  a  beautiful  day  overhead  — 
that  was  the  only  compensation.  We  were  sweaty, 
eaten  by  flies  and  mosquitoes,  and  covered  with  mud. 


140          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

All  day  we  sprawled  over  roots,  rocks,  and  logs,  plung 
ing  into  bogholes  and  slopping  along  in  the  running 
water,  which  in  places  had  turned  the  trail  into  an 
aqueduct.  The  men  from  Duluth  had  told  no  lie. 

After  crawling  upward  for  nearly  eight  hours  we 
came  upon  a  little  patch  of  bluejoint,  on  the  high  side 
of  the  hill,  and  there  camped  in  the  gloom  of  the  mossy 
and  poisonous  forest.  By  hard  and  persistent  work  we 
ticked  off  nearly  fifteen  miles,  and  judging  from  the 
stream,  which  grew  ever  swifter,  we  should  come  to  a 
divide  in  the  course  of  fifteen  or  twenty  miles. 

The  horses  being  packed  light  went  along  fairly  well, 
although  it  was  a  constant  struggle  to  get  them  to  go 
through  the  mud.  Old  Ladrone  walking  behind  me 
groaned  with  dismay  every  time  we  came  to  one  of  those 
terrible  sloughs.  He  seemed  to  plead  with  me,  "  Oh, 
my  master,  don't  send  me  into  that  dreadful  hole ! " 

But  there  was  no  other  way.  It  must  be  done,  and 
so  Burton's  sharp  cry  would  ring  out  behind  and  our 
little  train  would  go  in  one  after  the  other,  plunging, 
splashing,  groaning,  struggling  through.  Ladrone,  see 
ing  me  walk  a  log  by  the  side  of  the  trail,  would  some 
times  follow  me  as  deftly  as  a  cat.  He  seemed  to  think 
his  right  to  avoid  the  mud  as  good  as  mine.  But  as 
there  was  always  danger  of  his  slipping  off  and  injuring 
himself,  I  forced  him  to  wallow  in  the  mud,  which  was 
as  distressing  to  me  as  to  him. 

The  next  day  we  started  with  the  determination  to 
reach  the  divide.  u  There  is  no  hope  of  grass  so  long 
as  we  remain  in  this  forest,"  said  Burton.  "  We  must 


In  the  Cold  Green  Mountains         141 

get  above  timber  where  the  sun  shines  to  get  any  feed 
for  our  horses.  It  is  cruel,  but  we  must  push  them  to 
day  just  as  long  as  they  can  stand  up,  or  until  we  reach 
the  grass." 

Nothing  seemed  to  appall  or  disturb  my  partner ;  he 
was  always  ready  to  proceed,  his  voice  ringing  out  with 
inflexible  resolution. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  laborious  days  of  all  our  hard 
journey.  Hour  after  hour  we  climbed  steadily  up  beside 
the  roaring  gray-white  little  stream,  up  toward  the  far- 
shining  snowfields,  which  blazed  back  the  sun  like  mir 
rors.  The  trees  grew  smaller,  the  river  bed  seemed  to 
approach  us  until  we  slumped  along  in  the  running 
water.  At  last  we  burst  out  into  the  light  above  timber 
line.  Around  us  porcupines  galloped,  and  whistling 
marmots  signalled  with  shrill  vehemence.  We  were 
weak  with  fatigue  and  wet  with  icy  water  to  the  knees, 
but  we  pushed  on  doggedly  until  we  came  to  a  little 
mound  of  short,  delicious  green  grass  from  which  the 
snow  had  melted.  On  this  we  stopped  to  let  the  horses 
graze.  The  view  was  magnificent,  and  something  wild 
and  splendid  came  on  the  wind  over  the  snowy  peaks 
and  smooth  grassy  mounds. 

We  were  now  in  the  region  of  great  snowfields,  under 
which  roared  swift  streams  from  still  higher  altitudes. 
There  were  thousands  of  marmots,  which  seemed  to 
utter  the  most  intense  astonishment  at  the  inexplica 
ble  coming  of  these  strange  creatures.  The  snow  in 
the  gullies  had  a  curious  bloody  line  which  I  could  not 
account  for.  A  little  bird  high  up  here  uttered  a  sweet 


142          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

little  whistle,  so  sad,  so  full  of  pleading,  it  almost  brought 
tears  to  my  eyes.  In  form  it  resembled  a  horned  lark, 
but  was  smaller  and  kept  very  close  to  the  ground. 

We  reached  the  summit  at  sunset,  there  to  find  only 
other  mountains  and  other  enormous  gulches  leading 
downward  into  far  blue  canons.  It  was  the  wildest  land 
I  have  ever  seen.  A  country  unmapped,  unsurveyed, 
and  unprospected.  A  region  which  had  known  only  an 
occasional  Indian  hunter  or  trapper  with  his  load  of  furs 
on  his  way  down  to  the  river  and  his  canoe.  Desolate, 
without  life,  green  and  white  and  flashing  illimitably, 
the  gray  old  peaks  aligned  themselves  rank  on  rank  until 
lost  in  the  mists  of  still  wilder  regions. 

From  this  high  point  we  could  see  our  friends,  the 
Manchester  boys,  on  the  north  slope  two  or  three  miles 
below  us  at  timber  line.  Weak  in  the  knees,  cold  and 
wet  and  hungry  as  we  were,  we  determined  to  push  down 
the  trail  over  the  snowfields,  down  to  grass  and  water. 
Not  much  more  than  forty  minutes  later  we  came  out 
upon  a  comparatively  level  spot  of  earth  where  grass  was 
fairly  good,  and  where  the  wind-twisted  stunted  pines 
grew  in  clumps  large  enough  to  furnish  wood  for  our 
fires  and  a  pole  for  our  tent.  The  land  was  meshed 
with  roaring  rills  of  melting  snow,  and  all  around  went 
on  the  incessant  signalling  of  the  marmots  —  the  only 
cheerful  sound  in  all  the  wide  green  land. 

We  had  made  about  twenty-three  miles  that  day,  not 
withstanding  tremendous  steeps  and  endless  mudholes 
mid-leg  deep.  It  was  the  greatest  test  of  endurance  of 
our  trip. 


In  the  Cold  Green  Mountains          143 

We  had  the  good  luck  to  scare  up  a  ptarmigan  (a 
sort  of  piebald  mountain  grouse),  and  though  nearly 
fainting  with  hunger,  we  held  ourselves  in  check  until 
we  had  that  bird  roasted  to  a  turn.  I  shall  never  ex 
perience  greater  relief  or  sweeter  relaxation  of  rest  than 
that  I  felt  as  I  stretched  out  in  my  down-sleeping  bag 
for  twelve  hours'  slumber. 

I  considered  that  we  were  about  one  hundred  and 
ninety  miles  from  Hazleton,  and  that  this  must  certainly 
be  the  divide  between  the  Skeena  and  the  Stikeen.  The 
Manchester  boys  reported  finding  some  very  good  pieces 
of  quartz  on  the  hills,  and  they  were  all  out  with  spade 
and  pick  prospecting,  though  it  seemed  to  me  they 
showed  but  very  little  enthusiasm  in  the  search. 

"I  b'lieve  there's  gold  here,"  said  "Chihuahua,"  "but 
who's  goin'  to  stay  here  and  look  fer  it  ?  In  the  first 
place,  you  couldn't  work  fer  mor'n  'bout  three  months 
in  the  year,  and  it  'ud  take  ye  the  other  nine  months  fer 
to  git  yer  grub  in.  Them  hills  look  to  me  to  be  min 
eralized,  but  I  ain't  honin'  to  camp  here." 

This  seemed  to  be  the  general  feeling  of  all  the  other 
prospectors,  and  I  did  not  hear  that  any  one  else  went 
so  far  even  as  to  dig  a  hole. 

As  near  as  I  could  judge  there  seemed  to  be  three 
varieties  of  "  varmints  "  galloping  around  over  the  grassy 
slopes  of  this  high  country.  The  largest  of  these,  a 
gray  and  brown  creature  with  a  tawny,  bristling  mane, 
I  took  to  be  a  porcupine.  Next  in  size  were  the  giant 
whistlers,  who  sat  up  like  old  men  and  signalled,  like  one 
boy  to  another.  And  last  and  least,  and  more  numerous 


144          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

than  all,  were  the  smaller  "  chucks "  resembling  prairie 
dogs.  These  animals  together  with  the  ptarmigan  made 
up  the  inhabitants  of  these  lofty  slopes. 

I  searched  every  green  place  on  the  mountains  far 
and  near  with  my  field-glasses,  but  saw  no  sheep,  cari 
bou,  or  moose,  although  one  or  two  were  reported  to 
have  been  killed  by  others  on  the  trail.  The  ptarmigan 
lived  in  the  matted  patches  of  willow.  There  were  a 
great  many  of  them,  and  they  helped  out  our  monoto 
nous  diet  very  opportunely.  They  moved  about  in 
pairs,  the  cock  very  loyal  to  the  hen  in  time  of  danger; 
but  not  even  this  loyalty  could  save  him.  Hunger  such 
as  ours  considered  itself  very  humane  in  stopping  short 
of  the  slaughter  of  the  mother  bird.  The  cock  was 
easily  distinguished  by  reason  of  his  party-colored  plu 
mage  and  his  pink  eyes. 

We  spent  the  next  forenoon  in  camp  to  let  our 
horses  feed  up,  and  incidentally  to  rest  our  own  weary 
bones.  All  the  forenoon  great,  gray  clouds  crushed 
against  the  divide  behind  us,  flinging  themselves  in  rage 
against  the  rocks  like  hungry  vultures  baffled  in  their 
chase.  We  exulted  over  their  impotence.  "  We  are 
done  with  you,  you  storms  of  the  Skeena  —  we're  out  of 
your  reach  at  last !  " 

We  were  confirmed  in  this  belief  as  we  rode  down  the 
trail,  which  was  fairly  pleasant  except  for  short  periods, 
when  the  clouds  leaped  the  snowy  walls  behind  and 
scattered  drizzles  of  rain  over  us.  Later  the  clouds 
thickened,  the  sky  became  completely  overcast,  and  my 
exultation  changed  to  dismay,  and  we  camped  at  night 


In  the  Cold  Green  Mountains         145 

as  desolate  as  ever,  in  the  rain,  and  by  the  side  of  a  little 
marsh  on  which  the  horses  could  feed  only  by  wading 
fetlock  deep  in  the  water.  We  were  wet  to  the  skin, 
and  muddy  and  tired. 

I  could  no  longer  deceive  myself.  Our  journey  had 
become  a  grim  race  with  the  wolf.  Our  food  grew 
each  day  scantier,  and  we  were  forced  to  move  each  day 
and  every  day,  no  matter  what  the  sky  or  trail  might  be. 
Going  over  our  food  carefully  that  night,  we  calculated 
that  we  had  enough  to  last  us  ten  days,  and  if  we  were 
within  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  the  Skeena,  and  if 
no  accident  befell  us,  we  would  be  able  to  pull  in  without 
great  suffering. 

But  accidents  on  the  trail  are  common.  It  is  so  easy 
to  lose  a  couple  of  horses,  we  were  liable  to  delay  and 
to  accident,  and  the  chances  were  against  us  rather  than 
in  our  favor.  It  seemed  as  though  the  trail  would  never 
mend.  We  were  dropping  rapidly  down  through  dwarf 
pines,  down  into  endless  forests  of  gloom  again.  We 
had  splashed,  slipped,  and  tumbled  down  the  trail  to  this 
point  with  three  horses  weak  and  sick.  The  rain  had 
increased,  and  all  the  brightness  of  the  morning  on  the 
high  mountain  had  passed  away.  For  hours  we  had 
walked  without  a  word  except  to  our  horses,  and  now 
night  was  falling  in  thick,  cold  rain.  As  I  plodded  along 
I  saw  in  vision  and  with  great  longing  the  plains,  whose 
heat  and  light  seemed  paradise  by  contrast. 

The  next  day  was  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  such  a 
day  !  It  rained  all  the  forenoon,  cold,  persistent,  driz 
zling  rain.  We  hung  around  the  campfire  waiting  for 


146  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

some  let-up  to  the  incessant  downpour.  We  discussed 
the  situation.  I  said  :  u  Now,  if  the  stream  in  the  canon 
below  us  runs  to  the  left,  it  will  be  the  east  fork  of  the 
Iscoot,  and  we  will  then  be  within  about  one  hundred 
miles  of  Glenora.  If  it  runs  to  the  right,  Heaven  only 
knows  where  we  are." 

The  horses,  chilled  with  the  rain,  came  off  the  sloppy 
marsh  to  stand  under  the  trees,  and  old  Ladrone  edged 
close  to  the  big  fire  to  share  its  warmth.  This  caused 
us  to  bring  in  the  other  horses  and  put  them  close  to  the 
fire  under  the  big  branches  of  the  fir  tree.  It  was  deeply 
pathetic  to  watch  the  poor  worn  animals,  all  life  and 
spirit  gone  out  of  them,  standing  about  the  fire  with 
drooping  heads  and  half-closed  eyes.  Perhaps  they 
dreamed,  like  us,  of  the  beautiful,  warm,  grassy  hills  of 
the  south. 


THE    UTE    LOVER 

Beneath  the  burning  brazen  sky, 

The  yellowed  tepes  stand. 

Not  far  away  a  singing 

Sets  through  the  sand. 

Within  the  shadow  of  a  lonely  elm  tree 

The  tired  ponies  keep. 

The  wild  land,  throbbing  with  the  sun's  hot  magic, 

Is  rapt  as  sleep. 

From  out  a  clump  of  scanty  willows 

A  low  wail  floats. 

The  endless  repetition  of  a  lover's 

Melancholy  notes ; 

So  sad,  so  sweet,  so  elemental, 

All  lover's  pain 

Seems  borne  upon  its  sobbing  cadence  — 

The  love-song  of  the  plain. 

From  frenzied  cry  forever  falling, 

To  the  wind's  wild  moan, 

It  seems  the  voice  of  anguish  calling 

Alone  !  alone ! 


Caught  from  the  winds  forever  moaning 

On  the  plain, 

Wrought  from  the  agonies  of  woman 

In  maternal  pain, 

It  holds  within  its  simple  measure 

All  death  of  joy, 

Breathed  though  it  be  by  smiling  maiden 

Or  lithe  brown  boy. 

It  hath  this  magic,  sad  though  its  cadence 

And  short  refrain  ; 

It  helps  the  exiled  people  of  the  mountain 

Endure  the  plain  j 

For  when  at  night  the  stars  aglitter 

Defy  the  moon, 

The  maiden  listens,  leans  to  seek  her  lover 

Where  waters  croon. 

Flute  on,  O  lithe  and  tuneful  Utah, 

Reply  brown  jade; 

There  are  no  other  joys  secure  to  either 

Man  or  maid. 

Soon  you  are  old  and  heavy  hearted, 

Lost  to  mirth ; 

While  on  you  lies  the  white  man's  gory 

Greed  of  earth. 


148 


Strange  that  to  me  that  burning  desert 

Seems  so  dear. 

The  endless  sky  and  lonely  mesa, 

Flat  and  drear, 

Calls  me,  calls  me  as  the  flute  of  Utah 

Calls  his  mate  — 

This  wild,  sad,  sunny,  brazen  country, 

Hot  as  hate. 

Again  the  glittering  sky  uplifts  star-blazing ; 

Again  the  stream 

From  out  the  far-off  snowy  mountains 

Sings  through  my  dream ; 

And  on  the  air  I  hear  the  flute-voice  calling 

The  lover's  croon, 

And  see  the  listening,  longing  maiden 

Lit  by  the  moon. 


149 


DEVIL'S  CLUB 


It  is  a  sprawling,  hateful  thing, 
Thorny  and  twisted  like  a  snake, 
Writhing;  to  work  a  mischief,  in  the  brake 

O  ' 

It  stands  at  menace,  in  its  cling 
Is  danger  and  a  venomed  sting. 
It  grows  on  green  and  slimy  slopes, 
It  is  a  thing  of  shades  and  slums, 
For  passing  feet  it  wildly  gropes, 
And  loops  to  catch  all  feet  that  run 
Seeking  a  path  to  sky  and  sun. 


IN    THE    COLD    GREEN    MOUNTAINS 

In  the  cold  green  mountains  where  the  savage  torrents 

roared, 

And  the  clouds  were  gray  above  us, 
And  the  fishing  eagle  soared, 
Where  no  grass  waved,  where  no  robins  cried, 
There  our  horses  starved  and  died, 
In  the  cold  green  mountains. 

In  the  cold  green  mountains, 
Nothing  grew  but  moss  and  trees, 
Water  dripped  and  sludgy  streamlets 
Trapped  our  horses  by  the  knees. 
Where  we  slipped,  slid,  and  lunged, 
Mired  down  and  wildly  plunged 
Toward  the  cold  green  mountains  ! 
150 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    PASSING    OF    THE    BEANS 

AT  noon,  the  rain  slacking  a  little,  we  determined  to 
pack  up,  and  with  such  cheer  as  we  could  called  out, 
"  Line  up,  boys  —  line  up  !  "  starting  on  our  way  down 
the  trail. 

After  making  about  -  eight  miles  we  came  upon  a 
number  of  outfits  camped  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  As 
I  rode  along  on  my  gray  horse,  for  the  trail  there  allowed 
me  to  ride,  I  passed  a  man  seated  gloomily  at  the  mouth 
of  his  tent.  To  him  I  called  with  an  assumption  of 
jocularity  I  did  not  feel,  "Stranger,  where  are  you 
bound  for  ?  " 

He  replied,  «  The  North  Pole." 

"  Do  you  expect  to  get  there  ?  " 

u  Sure,"  he  replied. 

Riding  on  I  met  others  beside  the  trail,  and  all  wore  a 
similar  look  of  almost  sullen  gravity.  They  were  not 
disposed  to  joke  with  me,  and  perceiving  something  to 
be  wrong,  I  passed  on  without  further  remark. 

When  we  came  down  to  the  bank  of  the  stream, 
behold  it  ran  to  the  right.  And  I  could  have  sat  me 
down  and  blasphemed  with  the  rest.  I  now  understood 
the  gloom  of  the  others.  We  were  still  in  the  valley  of 


152          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

the  inexorable  Skeena.  It  could  be  nothing  else  ;  this 
tremendous  stream  running  to  our  right  could  be  no 
other  than  the  head-waters  of  that  ferocious  flood  which 
no  surveyor  has  located.  It  is  immensely  larger  and 
longer  than  any  map  shows. 

We  crossed  the  branch  without  much  trouble,  and 
found  some  beautiful  bluejoint-grass  on  the  opposite 
bank,  into  which  we  joyfully  turned  our  horses.  When 
they  had  filled  their  stomachs,  we  packed  up  and  pushed 
on  about  two  miles,  overtaking  the  Manchester  boys  on 
the  side-hill  in  a  tract  of  dead,  burned-out  timber,  a 
cheerless  spot. 

In  speaking  about  the  surly  answer  I  had  received 
from  the  man  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  I  said :  "  I 
wonder  why  those  men  are  camped  there  ?  They  must 
have  been  there  for  several  days." 

Partner  replied  :  "  They  are  all  out  of  grub  and  are 
waiting  for  some  one  to  come  by  to  whack-up  with  'em. 
One  of  the  fellows  came  out  and  talked  with  me  and 
said  he  had  nothing  left  but  beans,  and  tried  to  buy  some 
flour  of  me." 

This  opened  up  an  entirely  new  line  of  thought.  I 
understood  now  that  what  I  had  taken  for  sullenness 
was  the  dejection  of  despair.  The  way  was  growing 
gloomy  and  dark  to  them.  They,  too,  were  racing  with 
the  wolf. 

We  had  one  short  moment  of  relief  next  day  as  we 
entered  a  lovely  little  meadow  and  camped  for  noon. 
The  sun  shone  warm,  the  grass  was  thick  and  sweet. 
It  was  like  late  April  in  the  central  West  —  cool, 


The  Passing  of  the  Beans  153 

fragrant,  silent.  Aisles  of  peaks  stretched  behind  us 
and  before  us.  We  were  still  high  in  the  mountains, 
and  the  country  was  less  wooded  and  more  open.  But 
we  left  this  beautiful  spot  and  entered  again  on  a  morass. 
It  was  a  day  of  torture  to  man  and  beast.  The  land 
continued  silent.  There  were  no  toads,  no  butterflies, 
no  insects  of  any  kind,  except  a  few  mosquitoes,  no 
crickets,  no  singing  thing.  I  have  never  seen  a  land  so 
empty  of  life.  We  had  left  even  the  whistling  marmots 
entirely  behind  us. 

We  travelled  now  four  outfits  together,  with  some 
twenty-five  horses.  Part  of  the  time  I  led  with  Ladrone, 
part  of  the  time  "The  Man  from  Chihuahua"  took  the 
lead,  with  his  fine  strong  bays.  If  a  horse  got  down  we  all 
swarmed  around  and  lifted  him  out,  and  when  any  ques 
tion  of  the  trail  came  up  we  held  "  conferences  of  the 
powers." 

We  continued  for  the  most  part  up  a  wide  mossy  and 
grassy  river  bottom  covered  with  water.  We  waded 
for  miles  in  water  to  our  ankles,  crossing  hundreds  of 
deep  little  rivulets.  Occasionally  a  horse  went  down 
into  a  hole  and  had  to  be  u  snailed  out,"  and  we  were 
wet  and  covered  with  mud  all  day.  It  was  a  new  sort 
of  trail  and  a  terror.  The  mountains  on  each  side  were 
very  stately  and  impressive,  but  we  could  pay  little 
attention  to  views  when  our  horses  were  miring  down 
at  every  step. 

We  could  not  agree  about  the  river.  Some  were 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  it  was  a  branch  of  the  Stikeen, 
the  old  man  was  sure  it  was  "  Skeeny."  We  were 


154  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

troubled  by  a  new  sort  of  fly,  a  little  orange-colored 
fellow  whose  habits  were  similar  to  those  of  the  little 
black  fiends  of  the  Bulkley  Valley.  They  were  very 
poisonous  indeed,  and  made  our  ears  swell  up  enor 
mously —  the  itching  and  burning  was  well-nigh  intoler 
able.  We  saw  no  life  at  all  save  one  grouse  hen 
guarding  her  young.  A  paradise  for  game  it  seemed, 
but  no  game.  A  beautiful  grassy,  marshy,  and  empty 
land.  We  passed  over  one  low  divide  after  another 
with  immense  snowy  peaks  thickening  all  around  us. 
For  the  first  time  in  over  two  hundred  miles  we  were 
all  able  to  ride.  Whistling  marmots  and  grouse  again 
abounded.  We  had  a  bird  at  every  meal.  The  wind 
was  cool  and  the  sky  was  magnificent,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  many  days  we  were  able  to  take  off  our  hats 
and  face  the  wind  in  exultation. 

Toward  night,  however,  mosquitoes  became  trouble 
some  in  their  assaults,  covering  the  horses  in  solid 
masses.  Strange  to  say,  none  of  them,  not  even  La- 
drone,  seemed  to  mind  them  in  the  least.  We  felt  sure 
now  of  having  left  the  Skeena  forever.  One  day  we 
passed  over  a  beautiful  little  spot  of  dry  ground,  which 
filled  us  with  delight ;  it  seemed  as  though  we  had 
reached  the  prairies  of  the  pamphlets.  We  camped 
there  for  noon,  and  though  the  mosquitoes  were  terrific 
we  were  all  chortling  with  joy.  The  horses  found  grass 
in  plenty  and  plucked  up  spirits  amazingly.  We  were 
deceived.  In  half  an  hour  we  were  in  the  mud  again. 

The  whole  country  for  miles  and  miles  in  every 
direction  was  a  series  of  high  open  valleys  almost  en- 


The  Passing  of  the  Beans  155 

tirely  above  timber  line.  These  valleys  formed  the 
starting-points  of  innumerable  small  streams  which  fell 
away  into  the  Iskoot  on  the  left,  the  Stikeen  on  the 
north,  the  Skeena  on  the  east  and  south.  These 
valleys  were  covered  with  grass  and  moss  intermingled, 
and  vast  tracts  were  flooded  with  water  from  four  to 
eight  inches  deep,  through  which  we  were  forced  to 
slop  hour  after  hour,  and  riding  was  practically  im 
possible. 

As  we  were  plodding  along  silently  one  day  a  dainty 
white  gull  came  lilting  through  the  air  and  was  greeted 
with  cries  of  joy  by  the  weary  drivers.  More  than  one 
of  them  could  "  smell  the  salt  water."  In  imagination 
they  saw  this  bird  following  the  steamer  up  the  Stikeen 
to  the  first  south  fork,  thence  to  meet  us.  It  seemed 
only  a  short  ride  down  the  valley  to  the  city  of  Glenora 
and  the  post-office. 

Each  day  we  drove  above  timber  line,  and  at  noon 
were  forced  to  rustle  the  dead  dwarf  pine  for  fire.  The 
marshes  were  green  and  filled  with  exquisite  flowers  and 
mosses,  little  white  and  purple  bells,  some  of  them  the 
most  beautiful  turquoise-green  rising  from  tufts  of 
verdure  like  mignonette.  I  observed  also  a  sort  of 
crocus  and  some  cheery  little  buttercups.  The  ride 
would  have  been  magnificent  had  it  not  been  for  the 
spongy,  sloppy  marsh  through  which  our  horses  toiled. 
As  it  was,  we  felt  a  certain  breadth  and  grandeur  in  it 
surpassing  anything  we  had  hitherto  seen.  Our  three 
outfits  with  some  score  of  horses  went  winding  through 
the  wide,  green,  treeless  valleys  with  tinkle  of  bells  and 


156  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

sharp  cry  of  drivers.  The  trail  was  difficult  to  follow, 
because  in  the  open  ground  each  man  before  us  had  to 
take  his  own  course,  and  there  were  few  signs  to  mark 
the  line  the  road-gang  had  taken. 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  where  we  were,  but  I  was 
certain  we  were  upon  the  head-waters  of  some  one  of 
the  many  forks  of  the  great  Stikeen  River.  Marmots 
and  a  sort  of  little  prairie  dog  continued  plentiful,  but 
there  was  no  other  life.  The  days  were  bright  and 
cool,  resplendent  with  sun  and  rich  in  grass. 

Some  of  the  goldseekers  fired  a  salute  with  shotted 
guns  when,  poised  on  the  mountain  side,  they  looked 
down  upon  a  stream  flowing  to  the  northwest.  But 
the  joy  was  short-lived.  The  descent  of  this  mountain's 
side  was  by  all  odds  the  most  terrible  piece  of  trail  we 
had  yet  found.  It  led  down  the  north  slope,  and  was 
oozy  and  slippery  with  the  melting  snow.  It  dropped 
in  short  zigzags  down  through  a  grove  of  tangled, 
gnarled,  and  savage  cedars  and  pines,  whose  roots  were 
like  iron  and  filled  with  spurs  that  were  sharp  as  chisels. 
The  horses,  sliding  upon  their  haunches  and  unable  to 
turn  themselves  in  the  mud,  crashed  into  the  tangled 
pines  and  were  in  danger  of  being  torn  to  pieces.  For 
more  than  an  hour  we  slid  and  slewed  through  this 
horrible  jungle  of  savage  trees,  and  when  we  came  out 
below  we  had  two  horses  badly  snagged  in  the  feet,  but 
Ladrone  was  uninjured. 

We  now  crossed  and  recrossed  the  little  stream, 
which  dropped  into  a  deep  canon  running  still  to  the 
northwest.  After  descending  for  some  hours  we  took 


The  Passing  of  the  Beans  157 

a  trail  which  branched  sharply  to  the  northeast,  and 
climbed  heavily  to  a  most  beautiful  camping-spot  be 
tween  the  peaks,  with  good  grass,  and  water,  and  wood 
all  around  us. 

We  were  still  uncertain  of  our  whereabouts,  but  all 
the  boys  were  fairly  jubilant.  "This  would  be  a 
splendid  camp  for  a  few  weeks,"  said  partner. 

That  night  as  the  sun  set  in  incommunicable  splen 
dor  over  the  snowy  peaks  to  the  west  the  empty  land 
seemed  left  behind.  We  went  to  sleep  with  the  sound 
of  a  near-by  mountain  stream  in  our  ears,  and  the  voice 
of  an  eagle  sounding  somewhere  on  the  high  cliffs. 

The  next  day  we  crossed  another  divide  and  entered 
another  valley  running  north.  Being  confident  that 
this  w as  the  Stikeen,  we  camped  early  and  put  our  little 
house  up.  It  was  raining  a  little.  We  had  descended 
again  to  the  aspens  and  clumps  of  wild  roses.  It  was 
good  to  see  their  lovely  faces  once  more  after  our  long 
stay  in  the  wild,  cold  valleys  of  the  upper  lands. 
The  whole  country  seemed  drier,  and  the  vegetation 
quite  different.  Indeed,  it  resembled  some  of  the  Colo 
rado  valleys,  but  was  less  barren  on  the  bottoms.  The"re 
were  still  no  insects,  no  crickets,  no  bugs,  and  very  few 
birds  of  any  kind. 

All  along  the  way  on  the  white  surface  of  the  blazed 
trees  were  messages  left  by  those  who  had  gone  before 
us.  Some  of  them  were  profane  assaults  upon  the  road- 
gang.  Others  were  pathetic  inquiries  :  "  Where  in  hell 
are  we  ?  "  —  "  How  is  this  for  a  prairie  route  ?  "  — 
u  What  river  is  this,  anyhow  ? "  To  these  pencillings 


158  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

others  had  added  facetious  replies.  There  were  also 
warnings  and  signs  to  help  us  keep  out  of  the  mud. 

We  followed  the  same  stream  all  day.  Whether  the 
Iskoot  or  not  we  did  not  know.  The  signs  of  lower 
altitude  thickened.  Wild  roses  met  us  again,  and 
strawberry  blossoms  starred  the  sunny  slopes.  The 
grass  was  dry  and  ripe,  and  the  horses  did  not  relish  it 
after  their  long  stay  in  the  juicy  meadows  above.  We 
had  been  wet  every  day  for  nearly  three  weeks,  and  did 
not  mind  moisture  now,  but  my  shoes  were  rapidly 
going  to  pieces,  and  my  last  pair  of  trousers  was 
frazzled  to  the  knees. 

Nearly  every  outfit  had  lame  horses  like  our  old  bay, 
hobbling  along  bravely.  Our  grub  was  getting  very 
light,  which  was  a  good  thing  for  the  horses ;  but  we  had 
an  occasional  grouse  to  fry,  and  so  as  long  as  our  flour 
held  out  we  were  well  fed. 

It  became  warmer  each  day,  and  some  little  weazened 
berries  appeared  on  the  hillsides,  the  first  we  had  seen, 
and  they  tasted  mighty  good  after  months  of  bacon  and 
beans.  We  were  taking  some  pleasure  in  the  trip  again, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  the  sores  on  our  horses'  feet  and 
our  scant  larder  we  should  have  been  quite  at  ease.  Our 
course  now  lay  parallel  to  a  range  of  peaks  on  our  right, 
which  we  figured  to  be  the  Hotailub  Mountains.  This 
settled  the  question  of  our  position  on  the  map  —  we 
were  on  the  third  and  not  the  first  south  fork  of  the 
Stikeen  and  were  a  long  way  still  from  Telegraph 
Creek. 


THE    LONG    TRAIL 

We  tunnelled  miles  of  silent  pines, 

Dark  forests  where  the  stillness  was  so  deep 

The  scared  wind  walked  a  tip-toe  on  the  spines, 
And  the  restless  aspen  seemed  to  sleep. 

We  threaded  aisles  of  dripping  fir  ; 

We  climbed  toward  mountains  dim  and  far, 
Where  snow  forever  shines  and  shines, 

And  only  winds  and  waters  are. 

Red  streams  came  down  from  hillsides  crissed  and  crossed 

With  fallen  firs ;  but  on  a  sudden,  lo ! 
A  silver  lakelet  bound  and  barred 

With  sunset's  clouds  reflected  far  below. 

These  lakes  so  lonely  were,  so  still  and  cool, 
They  burned  as  bright  as  burnished  steel ; 

The  shadowed  pine  branch  in  the  pool 
Was  no  less  vivid  than  the  real. 

We  crossed  the  great  divide  and  saw 

The  sun-lit  valleys  far  below  us  wind; 
Before  us  opened  cloudless  sky ;  the  raw, 

Gray  rain  swept  close  behind. 

We  saw  great  glaciers  grind  themselves  to  foam ; 

We  trod  the  moose's  lofty  home, 
And  heard,  high  on  the  yellow  hills, 

The  wildcat  clamor  of  his  ills. 


The  way  grew  grimmer  day  by  day, 

The  weeks  to  months  stretched  on  and  on ; 

And  hunger  kept,  not  far  away, 
A  never  failing  watch  at  dawn. 

We  lost  all  reckoning  of  season  and  of  time ; 

Sometimes  it  seemed  the  bitter  breeze 
Of  icy  March  brought  fog  and  rain, 

And  next  November  tempests  shook  the  trees. 

It  was  a  wild  and  lonely  ride. 

Save  the  hid  loon's  mocking  cry, 
Or  marmot  on  the  mountain  side, 

The  earth  was  silent  as  the  sky. 

All  day  through  sunless  forest  aisles, 
On  cold  dark  moss  our  horses  trod ; 

It  was  so  lonely  there  for  miles  and  miles, 
The  land  seemed  lost  to  God. 

Our  horses  cut  by  rocks ;  by  brambles  torn, 

Staggered  onward,  stiff  and  sore; 
Or  broken,  bruised,  and  saddle-worn, 

Fell  in  the  sloughs  to  rise  no  more. 

Yet  still  we  rode  right  on  and  on, 

And  shook  our  clenched  hands  at  the  clouds, 
Daring  the  winds  of  early  dawn, 

And  the  dread  torrent  roaring  loud. 


1 60 


So  long  we  rode,  so  hard,  so  far, 

We  seemed  condemned  by  stern  decree 

To  ride  until  the  morning  star 
Should  sink  forever  in  the  sea. 

Yet  now,  when  all  is  past,  I  dream 
Of  every  mountain's  shining  cap. 

I  long  to  hear  again  the  stream 

Roar  through  the  foam-white  granite  gap. 

The  pains  recede.     The  joys  draw  near. 

The  splendors  of  great  Nature's  face 
Make  me  forget  all  need,  all  fear, 

And  the  long  journey  grows  in  grace. 


THE    GREETING    OF    THE    ROSES 

We  had  been  long  in  mountain  snow, 
In  valleys  bleak,  and  broad,  and  bare, 
Where  only  moss  and  willows  grow, 
And  no  bird  wings  the  silent  air. 
And  so  when  on  our  downward  way, 
Wild  roses  met  us,  we  were  glad ; 
They  were  so  girlish  fair,  so  gay, 
It  seemed  the  sun  had  made  them  mad. 


161 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    WOLVES    AND    THE    VULTURES    ASSEMBLE 

ABOUT  noon  of  the  fiftieth  day  out,  we  came  down  to 
the  bank  of  a  tremendously  swift  stream  which  we  called 
the  third  south  fork.  On  a  broken  paddle  stuck 
in  the  sand  we  found  this  notice :  "  The  trail  crosses 
here.  Swim  horses  from  the  bar.  It  is  supposed  to  be 
about  ninety  miles  to  Telegraph  Creek.  —  (Signed)  The 
Mules." 

We  were  bitterly  disappointed  to  find  ourselves  so  far 
from  our  destination,  and  began  once  more  to  calculate 
on  the  length  of  time  it  would  take  us  to  get  out  of  the 
wilderness. 

Partner  showed  me  the  flour-sack  which  he  held  in 
one  brawny  fist.  "  I  believe  the  dern  thing  leaks,"  said 
he,  and  together  we  went  over  our  store  of  food.  We 
found  ourselves  with  an  extra  supply  of  sugar,  condensed 
cream,  and  other  things  which  our  friends  the  Manches 
ter  boys  needed,  while  they  were  able  to  spare  us  a  little 
flour.  There  was  a  tacit  agreement  that  we  should 
travel  together  and  stand  together.  Accordingly  we  be 
gan  to  plan  for  the  crossing  of  this  swift  and  dangerous 
stream.  A  couple  of  canoes  were  found  cached  in  the 
bushes,  and  these  would  enable  us  to  set  our  goods 

163 


164          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

across,  while  we  forced  our  horses  to  swim  from  a  big 
bar  in  the  stream  above. 

While  we  were  discussing  these  thing  around  our  fires 
at  night,  another  tramper,  thin  and  weak,  came  into 
camp.  He  was  a  little  man  with  a  curly  red  beard,  and 
was  exceedingly  chipper  and  joculac  for  one  in  his  con 
dition.  He  had  been  out  of  food  for  some  days,  and  had 
been  living  on  squirrels,  ground-hogs,  and  such  other 
small  deer  as  he  could  kill  and  roast  along  his  way.  He 
brought  word  of  considerable  suffering  among  the  outfits 
behind  us,  reporting  "  The  Dutchman  "  to  be  entirely 
out  of  beans  and  flour,  while  others  had  lost  so  many  of 
their  horses  that  all  were  in  danger  of  starving  to  death 
in  th:  mountains. 

As  he  warmed  up  on  coffee  and  beans,  he  became  very 
amusing. 

He  was  hairy  and  ragged,  but  neat,  and  his  face 
showed  a  certain  delicacy  of  physique.  He,  too,  was  a 
marked  example  of  the  craze  to  "  get  somewhere  where 
gold  is."  He  broke  off  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  his  story 
to  exclaim  with  great  energy  :  "  I  want  to  do  two  things, 
go  back  and  get  my  boy  away  from  my  wife,  and  break 
the  back  of  my  brother-in-law.  He  made  all  the  trouble." 

Once  and  again  he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  find  the  gold 
up  here  or  lay  my  bones  on  the  hills." 

In  the  midst  of  these  intense  phrases  he  whistled  gayly 
or  broke  off  to  attend  to  his  cooking.  He  told  of  his 
hard  experiences,  with  pride  and  joy,  and  said,  u  Isn't  it 
lucky  I  caught  you  just  here  ?  "  and  seemed  willing  to 
talk  all  night. 


The  Wolves  and  the  Vultures  Assemble     165 

In  the  morning  I  went  over  to  the  campfire  to  see  if 
he  were  still  with  us.  He  was  sitting  in  his  scanty  bed 
before  the  fire,  mending  his  trousers.  u  I've  just  got  to 
put  a  patch  on  right  now  or  my  knee'll  be  through,"  he 
explained.  He  had  a  neat  little  kit  of  materials  and 
everything  was  in  order.  "  I  haven't  time  to  turn  the 
edges  of  the  patch  under,"  he  went  on.  tc  It  ought  to 
be  done  —  you  can't  make  a  durable  patch  unless  you 
do.  This  c  housewife '  my  wife  made  me  when  we  was 
first  married.  I  was  peddlin'  then  in  eastern  Oregon. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  brother  —  oh,  I'll  smash  his  face 
in,  some  day "  —  he  held  up  the  other  trouser  leg : 
"  See  that  patch  ?  Ain't  that  a  daisy  ?  —  that's  the  way 
I  ought  to  do.  Say,  looks  like  I  ought  to  rustle  enough 
grub  out  of  all  these  outfits  to  last  me  into  Glenora, 
don't  it  ? " 

We  came  down  gracefully  —  we  could  not  withstand 
such  prattle.  The  blacksmith  turned  in  some  beans, 
the  boys  from  Manchester  divided  their  scanty  store  of 
flour  and  bacon,  I  brought  some  salt,  some  sugar,  and 
some  oatmeal,  and  as  the  small  man  put  it  away  he 
chirped  and  chuckled  like  a  cricket.  His  thanks  were 
mere  words,  his  voice  was  calm.  He  accepted  our  aid 
as  a  matter  of  course.  No  perfectly  reasonable  man 
would  ever  take  such  frightful  chances  as  this  absurd 
little  ass  set  his  face  to  without  fear.  He  hummed  a 
little  tune  as  he  packed  his  outfit  into  his  shoulder-straps. 
"  I  ought  to  rattle  into  Glenora  on  this  grub,  hadn't  I  ? " 
he  said. 

At  last  he  was  ready  to  be  ferried  across  the  river, 


1 66          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

which  was  swift  and  dangerous.  Burton  set  him 
across,  and  as  he  was  about  to  depart  I  gave  him  a  letter 
to  post  and  a  half-dollar  to  pay  postage.  My  name  was 
written  on  the  corner  of  the  envelope.  He  knew  me 
then  and  said,  "  Pve  a  good  mind  to  stay  right  with 
you ;  Fm  something  of  a  writer  myself." 

I  hastened  to  say  that  he  could  reach  Glenora  two  or 
three  days  in  advance  of  us,  for  the  reason  that  we  were 
bothered  with  a  lame  horse.  In  reality,  we  were  getting 
very  short  of  provisions  and  were  even  then  on  rations. 
"  I  think  you'll  overtake  the  Borland  outfit,"  I  said.  "  If 
you  don't,  and  you  need  help,  camp  by  the  road  till  we 
come  up  and  we'll  all  share  as  long  as  there's  anything 
to  share.  But  you  are  in  good  trim  and  have  as  much 
grub  as  we  have,  so  you'd  better  spin  along." 

He  "  hit  the  trail  "  with  a  hearty  joy  that  promised 
well,  and  I  never  saw  him  again.  His  cheery  smile  and 
unshrinking  cheek  carried  him  through  a  journey  that 
appalled  old  packers  with  tents,  plenty  of  grub,  and  good 
horses.  To  me  he  was  simply  a  strongly  accentuated 
type  of  the  goldseeker  —  insanely  persistent ;  blind  to 
all  danger,  deaf  to  all  warning,  and  doomed  to  failure  at 
the  start. 

The  next  day  opened  cold  and  foggy,  but  we  entered 
upon  a  hard  day's  work.  Burton  became  the  chief 
canoeman,  while  one  of  the  Manchester  boys,  stripped 
to  the  undershirt,  sat  in  the  bow  to  pull  at  the  paddle 
u  all  same  Siwash."  Burton's  skill  and  good  judgment 
enabled  us  to  cross  without  losing  so  much  as  a  buckle. 
Some  of  our  poor  lame  horses  had  a  hard  struggle  in  the 


The  Wolves  and  the  Vultures  Assemble     167 

icy  current.  At  about  4  P.M.  we  were  able  to  line 
up  in  the  trail  on  the  opposite  side.  We  pressed  on  up 
to  the  higher  valleys  in  hopes  of  finding  better  feed,  and 
camped  in  the  rain  about  two  miles  from  the  ford.  The 
wind  came  from  the  northwest  with  a  suggestion  of 
autumn  in  its  uneasy  movement.  The  boys  were  now 
exceedingly  anxious  to  get  into  the  gold  country.  They 
began  to  feel  most  acutely  the  passing  of  the  summer. 
In  the  camp  at  night  the  talk  was  upon  the  condition  of 
Telegraph  Creek  and  the  Teslin  Lake  Trail. 

Rain,  rain,  rain  !  It  seemed  as  though  no  day  could 
pass  without  rain.  And  as  I  woke  I  heard  the  patter 
of  fine  drops  on  our  tent  roof.  The  old  man  cursed 
the  weather  most  eloquently,  expressing  the  general 
feeling  of  the  whole  company.  However,  we  saddled 
up  and  pushed  on,  much  delayed  by  the  lame  horses. 

At  about  twelve  o'clock  I  missed  my  partner's  voice 
and  looking  about  saw  only  two  of  the  packhorses 
following.  Hitching  those  beside  the  trail,  I  returned 
to  find  Burton  seated  beside  the  lame  horse,  which  could 
not  cross  the  slough.  I  examined  the  horse's  foot  and 
found  a  thin  stream  of  arterial  blood  spouting  out. 

"  That  ends  it,  Burton,"  I  said.  "  I  had  hoped  to 
bring  all  my  horses  through,  but  this  old  fellow  is  out 
of  the  race.  It  is  a  question  now  either  of  leaving  him 
beside  the  trail  with  a  notice  to  have  him  brought  for 
ward  or  of  shooting  him  out  of  hand." 

To  this  partner  gravely  agreed,  but  said,  "  It's  going 
to  be  pretty  hard  lines  to  shoot  that  faithful  old  chap." 

u  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  I  confess  I  haven't  the  courage 


1 68  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

to  face  him  with  a  rifle  after  all  these  weeks  of  faithful 
service.  But  it  must  be  done.  You  remember  that 
horse  back  there  with  a  hole  in  his  flank  and  his  head 
flung  up  ?  We  mustn't  leave  this  old  fellow  to  be  a 
prey  to  the  wolves.  Now  if  you'll  kill  him  you  can  set 
your  price  on  the  service.  Anything  at  all  I  will  pay. 
Did  you  ever  kill  a  horse  ?  " 

Partner  was  honest.  "  Yes,  once.  He  was  old  and 
sick  and  I  believed  it  better  to  put  him  out  of  his  suffer 
ing  than  to  let  him  drag  on." 

"  That  settles  it,  partner,"  said  I.  "  Your  hands  are 
already  imbued  with  gore  — •  it  must  be  done." 

He  rose  with  a  sigh.  "All  right.  Lead  him  out 
into  the  thicket." 

I  handed  him  the  gun  (into  which  I  had  shoved  two 
steel-jacketed  bullets,  the  kind  that  will  kill  a  grizzly 
bear),  and  took  the  old  horse  by  the  halter.  u  Come, 
boy,"  I  said,  "it's  hard,  but  it's  the  only  merciful 
thing."  The  old  horse  looked  at  me  with  such  serene 
trust  and  confidence,  my  courage  almost  failed  me.  His 
big  brown  eyes  were  so  full  of  sorrow  and  patient 
endurance.  With  some  urging  he  followed  me  into  the 
thicket  a  little  aside  from  the  trail.  Turning  away  I 
mounted  Ladrone  in  order  that  I  might  not  see  what 
happened.  There  was  a  crack  of  a  rifle  in  the  bush — 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  body  falling,  and  a  moment  later 
Burton  returned  with  a  coiled  rope  in  his  hand  and  a 
look  of  trouble  on  his  face.  The  horses  lined  up  again 
with  one  empty  place  and  an  extra  saddle  topping  the 
pony's  pack.  It  was  a  sorrowful  thing  to  do,  but  there 


The  Wolves  and  the  Vultures  Assemble     169 

was  no  better  way.  As  I  rode  on,  looking  back  occa 
sionally  to  see  that  my  train  was  following,  my  heart 
ached  to  think  of  the  toil  the  poor  old  horse  had  under 
gone —  only  to  meet  death  in  the  bush  at  the  hands 
of  his  master. 

Relieved  of  our  wounded  horse  we  made  good  time 
and  repassed  before  nine  o'clock  several  outfits  that  had 
overhauled  us  during  our  trouble.  We  rose  higher  and 
higher,  and  came  at  last  into  a  grassy  country  and  to  a 
series  of  small  lakes,  which  were  undoubtedly  the  source 
of  the  second  fork  of  the  Stikeen.  But  as  we  had  lost 
so  much  time  during  the  day,  we  pushed  on  with  all  our 
vigor  for  a  couple  of  hours  and  camped  about  nine 
o'clock  of  a  beautiful  evening,  with  a  magnificent  sky 
arching  us  as  if  with  a  prophecy  of  better  times  ahead. 

The  horses  were  now  travelling  very  light,  and  our 
food  supply  was  reduced  to  a  few  pounds  of  flour  and 
bread  —  we  had  no  game  and  no  berries.  Beans  were 
all  gone  and  our  bacon  reduced  to  the  last  shred.  We 
had  come  to  expect  rain  every  day  of  our  lives,  and  were 
feeling  a  little  the  effects  of  our  scanty  diet  of  bread  and 
bacon  —  hill-climbing  was  coming  to  be  laborious.  How 
ever,  the  way  led  downward  most  of  the  time,  and  we 
were  able  to  rack  along  at  a  very  good  pace  even  on  an 
empty  stomach. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  second  day  the  trail  led 
along  a  high  ridge,  a  sort  of  hog-back  overlooking  a 
small  river  valley  on  our  left,  and  bringing  into  view  an 
immense  blue  canon  far  ahead  of  us.  "  There  lies  the 
Stikeen,"  I  called  to  Burton.  "We're  on  the  second 


170  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

south  fork,  which  we  follow  to  the  Stikeen,  thence  to 
the  left  to  Telegraph  Creek."  I  began  to  compose  dog 
gerel  verses  to  express  our  exultation. 

We  were  very  tired  and  glad  when  we  reached  a 
camping-place.  We  could  not  stop  on  this  high  ridge 
for  lack  of  water,  although  the  feed  was  very  good.  We 
were  forced  to  plod  on  and  on  until  we  at  last  descended 
into  the  valley  of  a  little  stream  which  crossed  our  path. 
The  ground  had  been  much  trampled,  but  as  rain  was 
falling  and  darkness  coming  on,  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  camp. 

Out  of  our  last  bit  of  bacon  grease  and  bread  and  tea 
we  made  our  supper.  While  we  were  camping,  "  The 
Wild  Dutchman,"  a  stalwart  young  fellow  we  had  seen 
once  or  twice  on  the  trail,  came  by  with  a  very  sour 
visage.  He  went  into  camp  near,  and  came  over  to  see 
us.  He  said :  "  I  hain't  had  no  pread  for  more  dan  a 
veek.  I've  nuttin'  put  peans.  If  you  can,  let  me  haf 
a  biscuit.  By  Gott,  how  goot  dat  vould  taste." 

I  yielded  up  a  small  loaf  and  encouraged  him  as  best 
I  could  :  u  As  I  figure  it,  we  are  within  thirty-five  miles 
of  Telegraph  Creek;  I've  kept  a  careful  diary  of  our 
travel.  If  we've  passed  over  the  Dease  Lake  Trail,  which 
is  probably  about  four  hundred  miles  from  Hazleton  to 
Glenora,  we  must  be  now  within  thirty-five  miles  of 
Telegraph  Creek." 

I  was  not  half  so  sure  of  this  as  I  made  him  think; 
but  it  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  comfort,  and  he  went  off 
very  much  enlivened. 

Sunday  and  no  sun  !     It  was  raining  when  we  awoke 


The  Wolves  and  the  Vultures  Assemble     171 

and  the  mosquitoes  were  stickier  than  ever.  Our  grub 
was  nearly  gone,  our  horses  thin  and  weak,  and  the  jour 
ney  uncertain.  All  ill  things  seemed  to  assemble  like 
vultures  to  do  us  harm.  The  world  was  a  grim  place 
that  day.  It  was  a  question  whether  we  were  not  still 
on  the  third  south  fork  instead  of  the  second  south 
fork,  in  which  case  we  were  at  least  one  hundred  miles 
from  our  supplies.  If  we  were  forced  to  cross  the  main 
Stikeen  and  go  down  on  the  other  side,  it  might  be  even 
farther. 

The  men  behind  us  were  all  suffering,  and  some  of 
them  were  sure  to  have  a  hard  time  if  such  weather  con 
tinued.  At  the  same  time  I  felt  comparatively  sure  of 
our  ground. 

We  were  ragged,  dirty,  lame,  unshaven,  and  unshorn 
—  we  were  fighting  from  morning  till  night.  The  trail 
became  more  discouraging  each  moment  that  the  rain 
continued  to  fall.  There  was  little  conversation  even 
between  partner  and  myself.  For  many  days  we  had 
moved  in  perfect  silence  for  the  most  part,  though  no 
gloom  or  sullenness  appeared  in  Burton's  face.  We 
were  now  lined  up  once  more,  taking  the  trail  without 
a  word  save  the  sharp  outcry  of  the  drivers  hurrying  the 
horses  forward,  or  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  on  the  lead 
horse  of  the  train. 


THE    VULTURE 

He  wings  a  slow  and  watchful  flight, 
His  neck  is  bare,  his  eyes  are  bright, 
His  plumage  fits  the  starless  night. 

He  sits  at  feast  where  cattle  lie 

Withering  in  ashen  alkali, 

And  gorges  till  he  scarce  can  fly. 

But  he  is  kingly  on  the  breeze ! 
On  rigid  wing,  in  careless  ease, 
A  soundless  bark  on  viewless  seas. 
Piercing  the  purple  storm  cloud,  he  makes 
The  sun  his  neighbor,  and  shakes 
His  wrinkled  neck  in  mock  dismay, 
And  swings  his  slow,  contemptuous  way 
Above  the  hot  red  lightning's  play. 

Monarch  of  cloudland  —  yet  a  ghoul  of  prey. 


CAMPFIRES 

I.     Popple 

A  river  curves  like  a  bended  bow, 

And  over  it  winds  of  summer  lightly  blow; 

Two  boys  are  feeding  a  flame  with  bark 

Of  the  pungent  popple.     Hark  ! 

They  are  uttering  dreams.     "  I 

Will  go  hunt  gold  toward  the  western  sky,' 

Says  the  older  lad ;  u  I  know  it  is  there, 

For  the  rainbow  shows  just  where 

It  is.     I'll  go  camping,  and  take  a  pan, 

And  shovel  gold,  when  I'm  a  man." 

2.    Sage  Brush 

The  burning  day  draws  near  its  end, 

And  on  the  plain  a  man  and  his  friend 

Sit  feeding  an  odorous  sage-brush  fire. 

A  lofty  butte  like  a  funeral  pyre, 

With  the  sun  atop,  looms  high 

In  the  cloudless,  windless,  saffron  sky. 

A  snake  sleeps  under  a  grease-wood  plant ; 

A  horned  toad  snaps  at  a  passing  ant ; 

The  plain  is  void  as  a  polar  floe, 

And  the  limitless  sky  has  a  furnace  glow. 


173 


The  men  are  gaunt  and  shaggy  and  gray, 
And  their  childhood  river  is  far  away ; 
The  gold  still  hides  at  the  rainbow's  tip, 
Yet  the  wanderer  speaks  with  a  resolute  lip. 
"  I  will  seek  till  I  find  — or  till  I  die," 
He  mutters,  and  lifts  his  clenched  hand  high, 
And  puts  behind  him  love  and  wife, 
And  the  quiet  round  of  a  farmer's  life. 

3.    Pine 

The  dark  day  ends  in  a  bitter  night. 
The  mighty  mountains  cold,  and  white, 
And  stern  as  avarice,  still  hide  their  gold 
Deep  in  wild  canons  fold  on  fold, 
Both  men  are  old,  and  one  is  grown 
As  gray  as  the  snows  around  him  sown. 
He  hovers  over  a  fire  of  pine, 
Spicy  and  cheering;  toward  the  line 
Of  the  towering  peaks  he  lifts  his  eyes. 
"  I'd  rather  have  a  boy  with  shining  hair, 
To  bear  my  name,  than  all  your  share 
Of  earth's  red  gold,"  he  said ; 
And  died,  a  loveless,  childless  man, 
Before  the  morning  light  began. 


J74 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

AT    LAST    THE    STIKEEN 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  the  fifty- 
eighth  day  we  topped  a  low  divide,  and  came  in  sight  of 
the  Stikeen  River.  Our  hearts  thrilled  with  pleasure 
as  we  looked  far  over  the  deep  blue  and  purple-green 
spread  of  valley,  dim  with  mist,  in  which  a  little  silver 
ribbon  of  water  could  be  seen. 

After  weeks  of  rain,  as  if  to  make  amend  for  useless 
severity,  the  sun  came  out,  a  fresh  westerly  breeze 
sprang  up,  and  the  sky  filled  with  glowing  clouds 
flooded  with  tender  light.  The  bloom  of  fireweed  al 
most  concealed  the  devastation  of  flame  in  the  fallen 
firs,  and  the  grim  forest  seemed  a  royal  road  over  which 
we  could  pass  as  over  a  carpet  —  winter  seemed  far 
away. 

But  all  this  was  delusion.  Beneath  us  lay  a  thousand 
quagmires.  The  forest  was  filled  with  impenetrable 
jungles  and  hidden  streams,  ridges  sullen  and  silent  were 
to  be  crossed,  and  the  snow  was  close  at  hand.  Across 
this  valley  an  eagle  might  sweep  with  joy,  but  the  pack 
trains  must  crawl  in  mud  and  mire  through  long  hours 
of  torture.  We  spent  but  a  moment  here,  and  then 
with  grim  resolution  called  out,  "  Line  up,  boys,  line 

J7S 


176  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

up ! "  and  struck  down  upon  the  last  two  days  of  our 
long  journey. 

On  the  following  noon  we  topped  another  rise,  and 
came  unmistakably  in  sight  of  the  Stikeen  River  lying 
deep  in  its  rocky  canon.  We  had  ridden  all  the  morn 
ing  in  a  pelting  rain,  slashed  by  wet  trees,  plunging 
through  bogs  and  sliding  down  ravines,  and  when  we 
saw  the  valley  just  before  us  we  raised  a  cheer.  It 
seemed  we  could  hear  the  hotel  bells  ringing  far  below. 

But  when  we  had  tumbled  down  into  the  big  canon 
near  the  water's  edge,  we  found  ourselves  in  scarcely 
better  condition  than  before.  We  were  trapped  with 
no  feed  for  our  horses,  and  no  way  to  cross  the  river, 
which  was  roaring  mad  by  reason  of  the  heavy  rains, 
a  swift  and  terrible  flood,  impossible  to  swim.  Men 
were  camped  all  along  the  bank,  out  of  food  like  our 
selves,  and  ragged  and  worn  and  weary.  They  had 
formed  a  little  street  of  camps.  Borland,  the  leader  of 
the  big  mule  train,  was  there,  calm  and  efficient  as  ever. 
"  The  Wilson  Outfit,"  "  The  Man  from  Chihuahua," 
"  Throw-me-feet,"  and  the  Manchester  boys  were 
also  included  in  the  group.  "The  Dutchman"  came 
sliding  down  just  behind  us. 

After  a  scanty  dinner  of  bacon  grease  and  bread  we 
turned  our  horses  out  on  the  flat  by  the  river,  and  joined 
the  little  village.  Borland  said  :  "  We've  been  here  for 
a  day  and  a  half,  try  in'  to  induce  that  damn  ferryman  to 
come  over,  and  now  we're  waitin'  for  reinforcements. 
Let's  try  it  again,  numbers  will  bring  'em." 

Thereupon  we  marched  out  solemnly  upon  the  bank 


At  Last  the  Stikeen  177 

(some  ten  or  fifteen  of  us)  and  howled  like  a  pack  of 
wolves. 

For  two  hours  we  clamored,  alternating  the  Ute  war- 
whoop  with  the  Swiss  yodel.  It  was  truly  cacophonous, 
but  it  produced  results.  Minute  figures  came  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill  opposite,  and  looked  at  us  like  cautious 
cockroaches  and  then  went  away.  At  last  two  shadowy 
beetles  crawled  down  the  zigzag  trail  to  the  ferry-boat, 
and  began  bailing  her  out.  Ultimately  three  men, 
sweating,  scared,  and  tremulous,  swung  a  clumsy  scow 
upon  the  sand  at  our  feet.  It  was  no  child's  play  to 
cross  that  stream.  Together  with  one  of  u  The  Little 
Dutchmen,"  and  a  representation  from  "The  Mule 
Outfit,"  I  stepped  into  the  boat  and  it  was  swung  off 
into  the  savage  swirl  of  gray  water.  We  failed  of  land 
ing  the  first  time.  I  did  not  wonder  at  the  ferryman's 
nervousness,  as  I  felt  the  heave  and  rush  of  the  whirling 
savage  flood. 

At  the  "  ratty  "  little  town  of  Telegraph  Creek  we 
purchased  beans  at  fifteen  cents  a  pound,  bacon  at 
thirty-five  cents,  and  flour  at  ten  cents,  and  laden  with 
these  necessaries  hurried  back  to  the  hungry  hordes  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  That  night  "  The  Little 
Dutchman  "  did  nothing  but  cook  and  eat  to  make  up 
for  lost  time.  Every  face  wore  a  smile. 

The  next  morning  Burton  and  one  or  two  other  men 
from  the  outfits  took  the  horses  back  up  the  trail  to 
find  feed,  while  the  rest  of  us  remained  in  camp  to  be 
ready  for  the  boats.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  heard 
far  down  the  river  a  steamer  whistling  for  Telegraph 


178          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Creek,  and  everybody  began  packing  truck  down  to  the 
river  where  the  boat  was  expected  to  land.  Word  was 
sent  back  over  the  trail  to  the  boys  herding  the  horses, 
and  every  man  was  in  a  tremor  of  apprehension  lest  the 
herders  should  not  hear  the  boat  and  bring  the  horses 
down  in  time  to  get  off  on  it. 

It  was  punishing  work  packing  our  stuff  down  the 
sloppy  path  to  the  river  bank,  but  we  buckled  to  it  hard, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours  had  all  snug  and 
ready  for  embarkation. 

There  was  great  excitement  among  the  outfits,  and 
every  man  was  hurrying  and  worrying  to  get  away.  It 
was  known  that  charges  would  be  high,  and  each  of  us 
felt  in  his  pocket  to  see  how  many  dollars  he  had  left. 
The  steamboat  company  had  us  between  fire  and  water 
and  could  charge  whatever  it  pleased.  Some  of  the  poor 
prospectors  gave  up  their  last  dollar  to  cross  this  river 
toward  which  they  had  journeyed  so  long. 

The  boys  came  sliding  down  the  trail  wildly  ex 
cited,  driving  the  horses  before  them,  and  by  5.30  we 
were  all  packed  on  the  boat,  one  hundred  and  twenty 
horses  and  some  two  dozen  men.  We  were  a  seedy 
and  careworn  lot,  in  vivid  contrast  with  the  smartly 
uniformed  purser  of  the  boat.  The  rates  were  exorbi 
tant,  but  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  pay  them. 
However,  Borland  and  I,  acting  as  committee,  brought 
such  pressure  to  bear  upon  the  purser  that  he  "  threw 
in  "  a  dinner,  and  there  was  a  joyous  rush  for  the  table 
when  this  good  news  was  announced.  For  the  first 
time  in  nearly  three  months  we  were  able  to  sit  down  to 


At  Last  the  Stikeen  179 

a  fairly  good  meal  with  clean  nice  tableware,  with  pie 
and  pudding  to  end  the  meal.  It  seemed  as  though  we 
had  reached  civilization.  The  boat  was  handsomely 
built,  and  quite  new  and  capacious,  too,  for  it  held 
our  horses  without  serious  crowding.  I  was  especially 
anxious  about  Ladrone,  but  was  able  to  get  him  into  a 
very  nice  place  away  from  the  engines  and  in  no  danger 
of  being  kicked  by  a  vicious  mule. 

We  drifted  down  the  river  past  Telegraph  Creek 
without  stopping,  and  late  at  night  laid  by  at  Glenora 
and  unloaded  in  the  crisp,  cool  dusk.  As  we  came  off 
the  boat  with  our  horses  we  were  met  by  a  crowd  of 
cynical  loafers  who  called  to  us  out  of  the  dark,  "  What 
in  hell  you  fellows  think  you're  doing  ? "  We  were 
regarded  as  wildly  insane  for  having  come  over  so  long 
and  tedious  a  route. 

We  erected  our  tents,  and  went  into  camp  beside  our 
horses  on  the  bank  near  the  dock.  It  was  too  late  to 
move  farther  that  night.  We  fed  our  beasts  upon  hay 
at  five  cents  a  pound,  —  poor  hay  at  that,  —  and  they 
were  forced  to  stand  exposed  to  the  searching  river  wind. 

As  for  ourselves,  we  were  filled  with  dismay  by  the 
hopeless  dulness  of  the  town.  Instead  of  being  the 
hustling,  rushing  gold  camp  we  had  expected  to  find,  it 
came  to  light  as  a  little  town  of  tents  and  shanties,  filled 
with  men  who  had  practically  given  up  the  Teslin  Lake 
Route  as  a  bad  job.  The  government  trail  was  incom 
plete,  the  wagon  road  only  built  halfway,  and  the  rail 
road  —  of  which  we  had  heard  so  much  talk  —  had 
been  abandoned  altogether. 


180  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

As  I  slipped  the  saddle  and  bridle  from  Ladrone  next 
day  and  turned  him  out  upon  the  river  bottom  for  a  two 
weeks'  rest,  my  heart  was  very  light.  The  long  trail 
was  over.  No  more  mud,  rocks,  stumps,  and  roots  for 
Ladrone.  Away  the  other  poor  animals  streamed  down 
the  trail,  many  of  them  lame,  all  of  them  poor  and  weak, 
and  some  of  them  still  crazed  by  the  poisonous  plants  of 
the  cold  green  mountains  through  which  they  had  passed. 

This  ended  the  worst  of  the  toil,  the  torment  of  the 
trail.  It  had  no  dangers,  but  it  abounded  in  worriments 
and  disappointments.  As  I  look  back  upon  it  now  I 
suffer,  because  I  see  my  horses  standing  ankle-deep  in 
water  on  barren  marshes  or  crowding  round  the  fire 
chilled  and  weak,  in  endless  rain.  If  our  faces  looked 
haggard  and  worn,  it  was  because  of  the  never  ending 
anxiety  concerning  the  faithful  animals  who  trusted  in 
us  to  find  them  food  and  shelter.  Otherwise  we  suf 
fered  little,  slept  perfectly  dry  and  warm  every  night,  and 
ate  three  meals  each  day  :  true,  the  meals  grew  scanty 
and  monotonous,  but  we  did  not  go  hungry. 

The  trail  was  a  disappointment  to  me,  not  because  it 
was  long  and  crossed  mountains,  but  because  it  ran 
through  a  barren,  monotonous,  silent,  gloomy,  and  rainy 
country.  It  ceased  to  interest  me.  It  had  almost  no 
wild  animal  life,  which  I  love  to  hear  and  see.  Its 
lakes  and  rivers  were  for  the  most  part  cold  and  sullen, 
and  its  forests  sombre  and  depressing.  The  only  pleas 
ant  places  after  leaving  Hazleton  were  the  high  valleys 
above  timber  line.  They  were  magnificent,  although 
wet  and  marshy  to  traverse. 


At  Last  the  Stikeen  181 

As  a  route  to  reach  the  gold  fields  of  Teslin  Lake 
and  the  Yukon  it  is  absurd  and  foolish.  It  will  never 
be  used  again  for  that  purpose.  Should  mines  develop 
on  the  high  divides  between  the  Skeena,  Iskoot,  and 
Stikeen,  it  may  possibly  be  used  again  from  Hazleton  ; 
otherwise  it  will  be  given  back  to  the  Indians  and  their 
dogs. 


THE    FOOTSTEP    IN    THE    DESERT 

A  man  put  love  forth  from  his  heart, 

And  rode  across  the  desert  far  away. 
"  Woman  shall  have  no  place  nor  part 

In  my  lone  life,"  men  heard  him  say. 
He  rode  right  on.     The  level  rim 

Of  the  barren  plain  grew  low  and  wide ; 
It  seemed  to  taunt  and  beckon  him, 

To  ride  right  on  and  fiercely  ride. 

One  day  he  rode  a  well-worn  path, 

And  lo !  even  in  that  far  land 
He  saw  (and  cursed  in  gusty  wrath) 

A  woman's  footprint  in  the  sand. 
Sharply  he  drew  the  swinging  rein, 

And  hanging  from  his  saddle  bow 
Gazed  long  and  silently  —  cursed  again, 

Then  turned  as  if  to  go. 

"  For  love  will  seize  you  at  the  end, 

Fear  loneliness  —  fear  sickness,  too, 
For  they  will  teach  you  wisdom,  friend." 

Yet  he  rode  on  as  madmen  do. 
He  built  a  cabin  by  a  sounding  stream, 

He  digged  in  canons  dark  and  deep, 
And  ever  the  waters  caused  a  dream 

And  the  face  of  woman  broke  his  sleep. 


182 


It  was  a  slender  little  mark, 

And  the  man  had  lived  alone  so  long 
Within  the  canon's  noise  and  dark, 

The  footprint  moved  him  like  a  song. 
It  spoke  to  him  of  women  in  the  East, 

Of  girls  in  silken  robes,  with  shining  hair, 
And  talked  of  those  who  sat  at  feast, 

While  sweet-eyed  laughter  filled  the  air. 

And  more.     A  hundred  visions  rose, 

He  saw  his  mother's  knotted  hands 
Ply  round  thick-knitted  homely  hose, 

Her  thoughts  with  him  in  desert  lands. 
A  smiling  wife,  in  bib  and  cap, 

Moved  busily  from  chair  to  chair, 
Or  sat  with  apples  in  her  lap, 

Content  with  sweet  domestic  care. 

All  these  his  curse  had  put  awayy 
All  these  were  his  no  more  to  hold ; 

He  had  his  canon  cold  and  gray ^ 
He  had  his  little  heaps  of  gold. 


183 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE    GOLDSEEKERS'    CAMP    AT    GLENORA 

GLENORA,  like  Telegraph  Creek,  was  a  village  of 
tents  and  shacks.  Previous  to  the  opening  of  the  year 
it  had  been  an  old  Hudson  Bay  trading-post  at  the 
head  of  navigation  on  the  Stikeen  River,  but  during 
April  and  May  it  had  been  turned  into  a  swarming 
camp  of  goldseekers  on  their  way  to  Teslin  Lake  by 
way  of  the  much-advertised  u  Stikeen  Route "  to  the 
Yukon. 

A  couple  of  months  before  our  arrival  nearly  five 
thousand  people  had  been  encamped  on  the  river  flat; 
but  one  disappointment  had  followed  another,  the  gov 
ernment  road  had  been  abandoned,  the  pack  trail  had 
proved  a  menace,  and  as  a  result  the  camp  had  thinned 
away,  and  when  we  of  the  Long  Trail  began  to  drop  into 
town  Glenora  contained  less  than  five  hundred  people, 
including  tradesmen  and  mechanics. 

The  journey  of  those  who  accompanied  me  on  the 
Long  Trail  was  by  no  means  ended.  It  was  indeed  only 
half  done.  There  remained  more  than  one  hundred  and 
seventy  miles  of  pack  trail  before  the  head  of  navigation 
on  the  Yukon  could  be  reached.  I  turned  aside.  My 
partner  went  on. 

185 


1 86  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

In  order  to  enter  the  head-waters  of  the  Pelly  it  was 
necessary  to  traverse  four  hundred  miles  of  trail,  over 
which  a  year's  provision  for  each  man  must  be  carried. 
Food  was  reported  to  be  "  a  dollar  a  pound  "  at  Teslin 
Lake  and  winter  was  coming  on.  To  set  face  toward 
any  of  these  regions  meant  the  most  careful  preparation 
or  certain  death. 

The  weather  was  cold  and  bleak,  and  each  night  the 
boys  assembled  around  the  big  campfire  to  discuss  the 
situation.  They  reported  the  country  full  of  people 
eager  to  get  away.  Everybody  seemed  studying  the 
problem  of  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  Some  were 
for  going  to  the  head-waters  of  the  Pelly,  others  advo 
cated  the  Nisutlin,  and  others  still  thought  it  a  good 
plan  to  prospect  on  the  head-waters  of  the  Tooya,  from 
which  excellent  reports  were  coming  in. 

Hour  after  hour  they  debated,  argued,  and  agreed.  In 
the  midst  of  it  all  Burton  remained  cool  and  unhurried. 
Sitting  in  our  tent,  which  flapped  and  quivered  in  the 
sounding  southern  wind,  we  discussed  the  question  of 
future  action.  I  determined  to  leave  him  here  with  four 
of  the  horses  and  a  thousand  pounds  of  grub  with  which 
to  enter  the  gold  country ;  for  my  partner  was  a  miner, 
not  a  literary  man. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  go  with  him  to  Teslin 
Lake,  there  to  build  a  boat  and  float  down  the  river  to 
Dawson ;  but  I  was  six  weeks  behind  my  schedule,  the 
trail  was  reported  to  be  bad,  and  the  water  in  the  Hota- 
linqua  very  low,  making  boating  slow  and  hazardous. 
Therefore  I  concluded  to  join  the  stream  of  goldseekers 


The  Goldseekers'  Camp  at  Glenora     187 

who  were  pushing  down  toward  the  coast  to  go  in  by 
way  of  Skagway. 

There  was  a  feeling  in  the  air  on  the  third  day  after 
going  into  camp  which  suggested  the  coming  of  autumn. 
Some  of  the  boys  began  to  dread  the  desolate  north,  out 
of  which  the  snows  would  soon  begin  to  sweep.  It 
took  courage  to  set  face  into  that  wild  land  with  winter 
coming  on,  and  yet  many  of  them  were  ready  to  do  it. 
The  Manchester  boys  and  Burton  formed  a  "  side-part 
nership,"  and  faced  a  year  of  bacon  and  beans  without 
visible  sign  of  dismay. 

The  ominous  cold  deepened  a  little  every  night.  It 
seemed  like  October  as  the  sun  went  down.  Around 
us  on  every  side  the  mountain  peaks  cut  the  sky  keen 
as  the  edge  of  a  sword,  and  the  wind  howled  up  the 
river  gusty  and  wild. 

A  little  group  of  tents  sprang  up  around  our  own  and 
every  day  was  full  of  quiet  enjoyment.  We  were  all 
living  very  high,  with  plenty  of  berries  and  an  occa 
sional  piece  of  fresh  beef.  Steel-head  salmon  were  run 
ning  and  were  a  drug  in  the  market. 

The  talk  of  the  Pelly  River  grew  excited  as  a  report 
came  in  detailing  a  strike,  and  all  sorts  of  outfits  began 
to  sift  out  along  the  trail  toward  Teslin  Lake.  The 
rain  ceased  at  last  and  the  days  grew  very  pleasant  with 
the  wind  again  in  the  south,  roaring  up  the  river  all  day 
long  with  great  power,  reminding  me  of  the  equatorial 
currents  which  sweep  over  Illinois  and  Wisconsin  in 
September.  We  had  nothing  now  to  trouble  us  but  the 
question  of  moving  out  into  the  gold  country. 


1 88  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

One  by  one  the  other  misguided  ones  of  the  Long 
Trail  came  dropping  into  camp  to  meet  the  general  de 
pression  and  stagnation.  They  were  brown,  ragged, 
long-haired,  and  for  the  most  part  silent  with  dismay. 
Some  of  them  celebrated  their  escape  by  getting  drunk, 
but  mainly  they  were  too  serious-minded  to  waste  time 
or  substance.  Some  of  them  had  expended  their  last 
dollar  on  the  trail  and  were  forced  to  sell  their  horses 
for  money  to  take  them  out  of  the  country.  Some  of 
the  partnerships  went  to  pieces  for  other  causes.  Long- 
smouldering  dissensions  burst  into  flame.  "  The  Swedes  " 
divided  and  so  did  "  The  Dutchman,"  the  more  resolute 
of  them  keeping  on  the  main  trail  while  others  took  the 
trail  to  the  coast  or  returned  to  the  States. 

Meanwhile,  Ladrone  and  his  fellows  were  rejoicing 
like  ourselves  in  fairly  abundant  food  and  in  continuous 
rest.  The  old  gray  began  to  look  a  little  more  like  his 
own  proud  self.  As  I  went  out  to  see  him  he  came  up 
to  me  to  be  curried  and  nosed  about  me,  begging  for 
salt.  His  trust  in  me  made  him  doubly  dear,  and  I  took 
great  joy  in  thinking  that  he,  at  least,  was  not  doomed 
to  freeze  or  starve  in  this  savage  country  which  has  no 
mercy  and  no  hope  for  horses. 

There  was  great  excitement  on  the  first  Sunday  fol 
lowing  our  going  into  camp,  when  the  whistle  of  a 
steamer  announced  the  coming  of  the  mail.  It  produced 
as  much  movement  as  an  election  or  a  bear  fight.  We 
all  ran  to  the  bank  to  see  her  struggle  with  the  current, 
gaining  headway  only  inch  by  inch.  She  was  a  small 
stern-wheeler,  not  unlike  the  boats  which  run  on  the 


The  Goldseekers'   Camp  at  Glenora     189 

upper  Missouri.  We  all  followed  her  down  to  the 
Hudson  Bay  post,  like  a  lot  of  small  boys  at  a  circus,  to 
see  her  unload.  This  was  excitement  enough  for  one 
day,  and  we  returned  to  camp  feeling  that  we  were  once 
more  in  touch  with  civilization. 

Among  the  first  of  those  who  met  us  on  our  arrival 
was  a  German,  who  was  watching  some  horses  and  some 
supplies  in  a  big  tent  close  by  the  river  bank.  While 
pitching  my  tent  on  that  first  day  he  came  over  to  see 
me,  and  after  a  few  words  of  greeting  said  quietly,  but 
with  feeling,  "  I  am  glad  you've  come,  it  was  so  lone 
some  here."  We  were  very  busy,  but  I  think  we 
were  reasonably  kind  to  him  in  the  days  that  followed. 
He  often  came  over  of  an  evening  and  stood  about 
the  fire,  and  although  I  did  not  seek  to  entertain  him, 
I  am  glad  to  say  I  answered  him  civilly;  Burton  was 
even  social. 

I  recall  these  things  with  a  certain  degree  of  feeling, 
because  not  less  than  a  week  later  this  poor  fellow  was 
discovered  by  one  of  our  company  swinging  from  the 
crosstree  of  the  tent,  a  ghastly  corpse.  There  was 
something  inexplicable  in  the  deed.  No  one  could 
account  for  it.  He  seemed  not  to  be  a  man  of  deep 
feeling.  And  one  of  the  last  things  he  uttered  in  my 
hearing  was  a  coarse  jest  which  I  did  not  like  and  to 
which  I  made  no  reply. 

In  his  pocket  the  coroner  found  a  letter  wherein  he 
had  written,  "  Bury  me  right  here  where  I  failed,  here 
on  the  bank  of  the  river."  It  contained  also  a  message 
to  his  wife  and  children  in  the  States.  There  were 


190          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

tragic  splashes  of  red  on  the  trail,  murder,  and  violent 
death  by  animals  and  by  swift  waters.  Now  here  at  the 
end  of  the  trail  was  a  suicide. 

So  this  is  the  end  of  the  trail  to  him  — 
To  swing  at  the  tail  of  a  rope  and  die ; 
Making  a  chapter  gray  and  grim, 
Adding  a  ghost  to  the  midnight  sky  ? 
He  toiled  for  days  on  the  icy  way, 
He  slept  at  night  on  the  wind-swept  snow; 
Now  here  he  hangs  in  the  morning's  gray, 
A  grisly  shape  by  the  river's  flow. 

It  was  just  two  weeks  later  when  I  put  the  bridle  and 
saddle  on  Ladrone  and  rode  him  down  the  trail.  His 
heart  was  light  as  mine,  and  he  had  gained  some  part  of 
his  firm,  proud,  leaping  walk.  He  had  confidence  in 
the  earth  once  more.  This  was  the  first  firm  stretch  of 
road  he  had  trod  for  many  weeks.  He  was  now  to  take 
the  boat  for  the  outside  world. 

There  was  an  element  of  sadness  in  the  parting  be 
tween  Ladrone  and  the  train  he  had  led  for  so  many 
miles.  As  we  saddled  up  for  the  last  time  he  stood 
waiting.  The  horses  had  fared  together  for  ninety 
days.  They  had  "lined  up"  nearly  two  hundred  times, 
and  now  for  the  last  time  I  called  out :  "  Line  up,  boys  ! 
Line  up  !  Heke  !  Heke  !  " 

Ladrone  swung  into  the  trail.  Behind  him  came 
"  Barney,"  next  "  Major,"  then  sturdy  "  Bay  Bill,"  and 
lastly  "  Nibbles,"  the  pony.  For  the  last  time  they  were 


The  Goldseekers*  Camp  at  Glenora     191 

to  follow  their  swift  gray  leader,  who  was  going  south 
to  live  at  ease,  while  they  must  begin  again  the  ascent 
of  the  trail. 

Ladrone  whinnied  piteously  for  his  mates  as  I  led 
him  aboard  the  steamer,  but  they  did  not  answer.  They 
were  patiently  waiting  their  master's  signal.  Never 
again  would  they  set  eyes  on  the  stately  gray  leader  who 
was  bound  to  most  adventurous  things.  Never  again 
would  they  see  the  green  grass  come  on  the  hills. 

I  had  a  feeling  that  I  could  go  on  living  this  way, 
leading  a  pack  train  across  the  country  indefinitely.  It 
seemed  somehow  as  though  this  way  of  life,  this  rou 
tine,  must  continue.  I  had  a  deep  interest  in  the  four 
horses,  and  it  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  guilt  that 
I  saw  them  move  away  on  their  last  trail.  At  bottom 
the  end  of  every  horse  is  tragic.  Death  comes  sooner 
or  later,  but  death  here  in  this  country,  so  cold  and 
bleak  and  pitiless  to  all  animals,  seems  somehow  closer, 
more  inevitable,  more  cruel,  and  flings  over  every  ani 
mal  the  shadow  of  immediate  tragedy.  There  was 
something  approaching  crime  in  bringing  a  horse  over 
that  trail  for  a  thousand  miles  only  to  turn  him  loose 
at  the  end,  or  to  sell  him  to  some  man  who  would 
work  him  to  the  point  of  death,  and  then  shoot  him  or 
turn  him  out  to  freeze. 

As  the  time  came  when  I  must  return  to  the  south 
and  to  the  tame,  the  settled,  the  quiet,  I  experienced 
a  profound  feeling  of  regret,  of  longing  for  the  wild 
and  lonely.  I  looked  up  at  the  shining  green  and 
white  mountains  and  they  allured  me  still,  notwith- 


192          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

standing  all  the  toil  and  discomfort  of  the  journey  just 
completed.  The  wind  from  the  south,  damp  and  cool, 
the  great  river  gliding  with  rushing  roar  to  meet  the 
sea,  had  a  distinct  and  wonderful  charm  from  which  I 
rent  myself  with  distinct  effort. 


THE    TOIL    OF    THE    TRAIL 

What  have  I  gained  by  the  toil  of  the  trail  ? 
I  know  and  know  well. 
I  have  found  once  again  the  lore  I  had  lost 
In  the  loud  city's  hell. 

I  have  broadened  my  hand  to  the  cinch  and  the  axe, 

I  have  laid  my  flesh  to  the  rain ; 

I  was  hunter  and  trailer  and  guide ; 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 

I  have  threaded  the  wild  with  the  stealth  of  the  deer, 

No  eagle  is  freer  than  I ; 

No  mountain  can  thwart  me,  no  torrent  appall, 

I  defy  the  stern  sky. 

So  long  as  I  live  these  joys  will  remain, 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 


193 


CHAPTER  XX 

GREAT    NEWS    AT    WRANGELL 

BOAT  after  boat  had  come  up,  stopped  for  a  night,  and 
dropped  down  the  river  again,  carrying  from  ten  to 
twenty  of  the  goldseekers  who  had  determined  to  quit 
or  to  try  some  other  way  in  ;  and  at  last  the  time  had  come 
for  me  to  say  good-by  to  Burton  and  all  those  who  had 
determined  to  keep  on  to  Teslin  Lake.  I  had  helped 
them  buy  and  sack  and  weigh  their  supplies,  and  they 
were  ready  to  line  up  once  more. 

As  I  led  Ladrone  down  toward  the  boat,  he  called 
again  for  his  fellows,  but  only  strangers  made  reply. 
After  stowing  him  safely  away  and  giving  him  feed, 
I  returned  to  the  deck  in  order  to  wave  my  hat  to 
Burton. 

In  accordance  with  his  peculiar,  undemonstrative 
temperament,  he  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  silence, 
with  his  hands  folded  behind  his  back,  then,  with  a 
final  wave  of  the  hand,  turned  on  his  heel  and  returned 
to  his  work. 

Farewells  and  advice  more  or  less  jocular  rang  across 
the  rail  of  the  boat  between  some  ten  or  fifteen  of  us 
who  had  hit  the  new  trail  and  those  on  shore. 

"  Good-by,  boys  j  see  you  at  Dawson." 


196          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

"  We'll  beat  you  in  yet,"  called  Bill.  "  Don't  over 
work." 

u  Let  us  know  if  you  strike  it !  "  shouted  Frank. 

"  All  right  j  you  do  the  same,"  I  replied. 

As  the  boat  swung  out  into  the  stream,  and  the  little 
group  on  the  bank  faded  swiftly  away,  I  confess  to  a 
little  dimness  of  the  eyes.  I  thought  of  the  hardships 
toward  which  my  uncomplaining  partner  was  headed, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  Nature  was  conspiring  to  crush 
him. 

The  trip  down  the  river  was  exceedingly  interesting. 
The  stream  grew  narrower  as  we  approached  the  coast 
range,  and  became  at  last  very  dangerous  for  a  heavy 
boat  such  as  the  Strathcona  was.  We  were  forced  to 
lay  by  at  last,  some  fifty  miles  down,  on  account  of 
the  terrific  wind  which  roared  in  through  the  gap, 
making  the  steering  of  the  big  boat  through  the  canon 
very  difficult. 

At  the  point  where  we  lay  for  the  night  a  small 
creek  came  in.  Steel-headed  salmon  were  running, 
and  the  creek  was  literally  lined  with  bear  tracks  of 
great  size,  as  far  up  as  we  penetrated.  These  bears 
are  said  to  be  a  sort  of  brown  fishing  bear  of  enormous 
bulk,  as  large  as  polar  bears,  and  when  the  salmon  are 
spawning  in  the  upper  waters  of  the  coast  rivers,  they 
become  so  fat  they  can  hardly  move.  Certainly  I  have 
never  been  in  a  country  where  bear  signs  were  so  plen 
tiful.  The  wood  was  an  almost  impassable  tangle  of 
vines  and  undergrowth,  and  the  thought  of  really  find 
ing  a  bear  was  appalling. 


Great  News  at  Wrangell  197 

The  Stikeen  breaks  directly  through  the  coast  range 
at  right  angles,  like  a  battering-ram.  Immense  glaciers 
were  on  either  side.  One  tremendous  river  of  ice  came 
down  on  our  right,  presenting  a  face  wall  apparently 
hundreds  of  feet  in  height  and  some  miles  in  width. 
I  should  have  enjoyed  exploring  this  glacier,  which  is 
said  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  on  the  coast. 

The  next  day  our  captain,  a  bold  and  reckless  man, 
carried  us  through  to  Wrangell  by  walking  his  boat  over 
the  sand  bars  on  its  paddle-wheel.  I  was  exceedingly 
nervous,  because  if  for  any  reason  we  had  become  stuck 
in  mid  river,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  feed  La- 
drone  or  to  take  him  ashore  except  by  means  of  another 
steamer.  However,  all  things  worked  together  to  bring 
us  safely  through,  and  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second 
day  we  entered  an  utterly  different  world — the  warm, 
wet  coast  country.  The  air  was  moist,  the  grasses  and 
tall  ferns  were  luxuriant,  and  the  forest  trees  immense. 
Out  into  a  sun-bright  bay  we  swept  with  a  feeling  of 
being  in  safe  waters  once  more,  and  rounded-to  about 
sunset  at  a  point  on  the  island  just  above  a  frowzy 
little  town.  This  was  Wrangell  Island  and  the  town 
was  Fort  Wrangell,  one  of  the  oldest  stations  on  the 
coast. 

I  had  placed  my  horse  under  bond  intending  to  send 
him  through  to  Vancouver  to  be  taken  care  of  by  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company.  He  was  still  a  Canadian  horse 
and  so  must  remain  upon  the  wharf  over  night.  As  he 
was  very  restless  and  uneasy,  I  camped  down  beside 
him  on  the  planks. 


198          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

I  lay  for  a  long  time  listening  to  the  waters  flowing 
under  me  and  looking  at  the  gray-blue  sky,  across  which 
stars  shot  like  distant  rockets  dying  out  in  the  deeps  of 
the  heavens  in  silence.  An  odious  smell  rose  from  the 
bay  as  the  tide  went  out,  a  seal  bawled  in  the  distance, 
fishes  flopped  about  in  the  pools  beneath  me,  and  a  man 
playing  a  violin  somewhere  in  the  village  added  a  melan- 
choly  note.  I  could  hear  the  boys  crying,  u  All  about 
the  war,1'  and  Ladrone  continued  restless  and  eager. 
Several  times  in  the  night,  when  he  woke  me  with  his 
trampling,  I  called  to  him,  and  hearing  my  voice  he 
became  quiet. 

I  took  breakfast  at  a  twenty-five  cent  u  joint,"  where 
I  washed  out  of  a  tin  basin  in  an  ill-smelling  area. 
After  breakfast  I  grappled  with  the  customs  man  and 
secured  the  papers  which  made  Ladrone  an  American 
horse,  free  to  eat  grass  wherever  it  could  be  found  under 
the  stars  and  stripes.  I  started  immediately  to  lead  him 
to  pasture,  and  this  was  an  interesting  and  memorable 
experience. 

There  are  no  streets,  that  is  to  say  no  roads,  in 
Wrangell.  There  are  no  carriages  and  no  horses,  not 
even  donkeys.  Therefore  it  was  necessary  for  Ladrone 
to  walk  the  perilous  wooden  sidewalks  after  me.  This 
he  did  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  county  judge,  and  at  last 
we  came  upon  grass,  knee  deep,  rich  and  juicy. 

Our  passage  through  the  street  created  a  great  sensa 
tion.  Little  children  ran  to  the  gates  to  look  upon  us. 
"There  goes  a  horsie,"  they  shouted.  An  old  man 
stopped  me  on  the  street  and  asked  me  where  I  was 


Great  News  at  Wrangell  199 

taking  "T'old  'orse."  I  told  him  I  had  already  ridden 
him  over  a  thousand  miles  and  now  he  was  travelling 
with  me  back  to  God's  country.  He  looked  at  me  in 
amazement,  and  walked  off  tapping  his  forehead  as  a 
sign  that  I  must  certainly  "  have  wheels." 

As  I  watched  Ladrone  at  his  feed  an  old  Indian 
woman  came  along  and  smiled  with  amiable  interest. 
At  last  she  said,  pointing  to  the  other  side  of  the  village, 
u  Over  there  muck-a-muck,  hy-u  muck-a-muck."  She 
wished  to  see  the  horse  eating  the  best  grass  there  was 
to  be  had  on  the  island. 

A  little  later  three  or  four  native  children  came  down 
the  hill  and  were  so  amazed  and  so  alarmed  at  the  sight 
of  this  great  beast  feeding  beside  the  walk  that  they 
burst  into  loud  outcry  and  ran  desperately  away.  They 
were  not  accustomed  to  horses.  To  them  he  was  quite 
as  savage  in  appearance  as  a  polar  bear. 

In  a  short  time  everybody  in  the  town  knew  of  the 
old  gray  horse  and  his  owner.  I  furnished  a  splendid 
topic  for  humorous  conversation  during  the  dull  hours 
of  the  day. 

Here  again  I  came  upon  other  gaunt  and  rusty- 
coated  men  from  the  Long  Trail.  They  could  be 
recognized  at  a  glance  by  reason  of  their  sombre  faces 
and  their  undecided  action.  They  could  scarcely  bring 
themselves  to  such  ignominious  return  from  a  fruitless 
trip  on  which  they  had  started  with  so  much  elation, 
and  yet  they  hesitated  about  attempting  any  further 
adventure  to  the  north,  mainly  because  their  horses  had 
sold  for  so  little  and  their  expenses  had  been  so  great. 


2OO          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Many  of  them  were  nearly  broken.  In  the  days  that 
followed  they  discussed  the  matter  in  subdued  voices, 
sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  great  wharf,  sombrely  looking 
out  upon  the  bay. 

On  the  third  day  a  steamer  came  in  from  the  north, 
buzzing  with  the  news  of  another  great  strike  not  far 
from  Skagway.  Juneau,  Dyea,  as  well  as  Skagway  it 
self,  were  said  to  be  almost  deserted.  Men  were  leaving 
the  White  Pass  Railway  in  hundreds,  and  a  number  of 
the  hands  on  the  steamer  herself  had  deserted  under  the 
excitement.  Mingling  with  the  passengers  we  eagerly 
extracted  every  drop  of  information  possible.  No  one 
knew  much  about  it,  but  they  said  all  they  knew  and  a 
good  part  of  what  they  had  heard,  and  when  the  boat 
swung  round  and  disappeared  in  the  moonlight,  she  left 
the  goldseekers  exultant  and  tremulous  on  the  wharf. 

They  were  now  aflame  with  desire  to  take  part  in 
this  new  stampede,  which  seemed  to  be  within  their 
slender  means,  and  I,  being  one  of  them  and  eager  to  see 
such  a  "  stampede,"  took  a  final  session  with  the  customs 
collector,  and  prepared  to  board  the  next  boat. 

I  arranged  with  Duncan  McKinnon  to  have  my  old 
horse  taken  care  of  in  his  lot.  I  dug  wells  for  him  so 
that  he  should  not  lack  for  water,  and  treated  him  to  a 
dish  of  salt,  and  just  at  sunset  said  good-by  to  him 
with  another  twinge  of  sadness  and  turned  toward  the 
wharf.  He  looked  very  lonely  and  sad  standing  there 
with  drooping  head  in  the  midst  of  the  stumps  of  his 
pasture  lot.  However,  there  was  plenty  of  feed  and  half 
a  dozen  men  volunteered  to  keep  an  eye  on  him. 


Great  News  at  Wrangell  201 

"  Don't  worry,  mon,"  said  Donald  McLane.  "  He'll 
be  gettin'  fat  and  strong  on  the  juicy  grass,  whilst  you're 
a-heavin'  out  the  gold-dust." 

There  were  about  ten  of  us  who  lined  up  to  the  purser's 
window  of  the  little  steamer  which  came  along  that  night 
and  purchased  second-class  passage.  The  boat  was 
very  properly  named  the  Utopia,  and  was  so  crowded 
with  other  goldseekers  from  down  the  coast,  that  we  of 
the  Long  Trail  were  forced  to  put  our  beds  on  the  floor 
of  the  little  saloon  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  which  was 
called  the  "  social  room."  We  were  all  second-class,  and 
we  all  lay  down  in  rows  on  the  carpet,  covering  every  foot 
of  space.  Each  man  rolled  up  in  his  own  blankets,  and 
I  was  the  object  of  considerable  remark  by  reason  of  my 
mattress,  which  gave  me  as  good  a  bed  as  the  vessel 
afforded. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  noise  on  the  boat,  and  its 
passengers,  both  men  and  women,  were  not  of  the  high 
est  type.  There  were  several  stowaways,  and  some  of 
the  women  were  not  very  nice  as  to  their  actions,  and, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  were  treated  with  scant  respect  by 
the  men,  who  were  loud  and  vulgar  for  the  most  part. 
Sleep  was  difficult  in  the  turmoil. 

Though  second-class  passengers,  strange  to  say,  we 
came  first  at  table  and  were  very  well  fed.  The  boat 
ran  entirely  inside  a  long  row  of  islands,  and  the  water 
was  smooth  as  a  river.  The  mountains  grew  each 
moment  more  splendid  as  we  neared  Skagway,  and  the 
ride  was  most  enjoyable.  Whales  and  sharks  interested 
us  on  the  way.  The  women  came  to  light  next  day, 


2O2  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

and  on  the  whole  were  much  better  than  I  had  inferred 
from  the  two  or  three  who  were  the  source  of  disturb 
ance  the  night  before.  The  men  were  not  of  much 
interest;  they  seemed  petty  and  without  character  for 
the  most  part. 

At  Juneau  we  came  into  a  still  more  mountainous 
country,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  way  the  scenery  was 
magnificent.  Vast  rivers  of  ice  came  curving  down  ab 
solutely  out  of  the  clouds  which  hid  the  summits  of  the 
mountains  —  came  curving  in  splendid  lines  down  to  the 
very  water's  edge.  The  sea  was  chill  and  gray,  and  as 
we  entered  the  mouth  of  Lynn  Canal  a  raw  swift  wind 
swept  by,  making  us  shiver  with  cold.  The  grim  bronze- 
green  mountains'  sides  formed  a  most  impressive  but 
forbidding  scene. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  as  we  swung  to 
and  unloaded  ourselves  upon  one  of  the  long  wharves 
which  run  out  from  the  town  of  Skagway  toward  the 
deep  water.  We  found  the  town  exceedingly  quiet. 
Half  the  men  had  gone  to  the  new  strike.  Stores  were 
being  tended  by  women,  some  small  shops  were  closed 
entirely,  and  nearly  every  business  firm  had  sent  repre 
sentatives  into  the  new  gold  fields,  which  we  now  found 
to  be  on  Atlin  Lake. 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  this  wharf  a  few  months 
before  had  been  the  scene  of  a  bloody  tragedy  which 
involved  the  shooting  of  "  Soapy  Smith,"  the  renowned 
robber  and  desperado.  On  the  contrary,  it  seemed  quite 
like  any  other  town  of  its  size  in  the  States.  The  air 
was  warm  and  delightful  in  midday,  but  toward  night 


Great  News  at  Wrangell  203 

the  piercing  wind  swept  down  from  the  high  mountains, 
making  an  overcoat  necessary. 

A  few  men  had  returned  from  this  new  district,  and 
were  full  of  enthusiasm  concerning  the  prospects.  Their 
reports  increased  the  almost  universal  desire  to  have  a 
part  in  the  stampede.  The  Iowa  boys  from  the  Long 
Trail  wasted  no  time,  but  set  about  their  own  plans  for 
getting  in.  They  expected  to  reach  the  creek  by  sheer 
force  and  awkwardness. 

They  had  determined  to  try  the  "cut-off,"  which 
left  the  wagon  road  and  took  off  up  the  east  fork  of 
the  Skagway  River.  Nearly  three  hundred  people  had 
already  set  out  on  this  trail,  and  the  boys  felt  sure  of 
"making  it  all  right  —  all  right,"  though  it  led  over  a 
great  glacier  and  into  an  unmapped  region  of  swift 
streams.  "After  the  Telegraph  Trail,"  said  Doc, 
"we're  not  easily  scared." 

It  seemed  to  me  a  desperate  chance,  and  I  was  not 
ready  to  enter  upon  such  a  trip  with  only  such  grub  and 
clothing  as  could  be  carried  upon  my  back ;  but  it  was 
the  last  throw  of  the  dice  for  these  young  fellows.  They 
had  very  little  money  left,  and  could  not  afford  to  hire 
pack  trains  ;  but  by  making  a  swift  dash  into  the  country, 
each  hoped  to  get  a  claim.  How  they  expected  to  hold 
it  or  use  it  after  they  got  it,  they  were  unable  to  say ; 
but  as  they  were  out  for  gold,  and  here  was  a  chance 
(even  though  it  were  but  the  slightest  chance  in  the 
world)  to  secure  a  location,  they  accepted  it  with  the 
sublime  audacity  of  youth  and  ignorance.  They  saddled 
themselves  with  their  packs,  and  with  a  cheery  wave  of 


204          The  Trail  °f  the  Goldseekers 

the  hand  said  "  Good-by  and  good  luck "  and  marched 
away  in  single  file. 

Just  a  week  later  I  went  round  to  see  if  any  news  of 
them  had  returned  to  their  bunk  house.  I  found  their 
names  on  the  register.  They  had  failed.  One  of  them 
set  forth  their  condition  of  purse  and  mind  by  writ 
ing  :  "  Dave  Walters,  Boone,  Iowa.  Busted  and  going 
home." 


THE    GOLDSEEKERS 


I  saw  these  dreamers  of  dreams  go  by, 
I  trod  in  their  footsteps  a  space ; 
Each  marched  with  his  eyes  on  the  sky, 
Each  passed  with  a  light  on  his  face. 


They  came  from  the  hopeless  and  sad, 
They  faced  the  future  and  gold; 
Some  the  tooth  of  want's  wolf  had  made  mad, 
And  some  at  the  forge  had  grown  old. 


Behind  them  these  serfs  of  the  tool 
The  rags  of  their  service  had  flung ; 
No  longer  of  fortune  the  fool, 
This  word  from  each  bearded  lip  rung 


"  Once  more  Pm  a  man,  I  am  free ! 
No  man  is  my  master,  I  say; 
To-morrow  I  fail,  it  may  be  — 
No  matter,  I'm  freeman  to-day." 


They  go  to  a  toil  that  is  sure, 
To  despair  and  hunger  and  cold ; 
Their  sickness  no  warning  can  cure, 
They  are  mad  with  a  longing  for  gold. 

205 


The  light  will  fade  from  each  eye, 

The  smile  from  each  face ; 

They  will  curse  the  impassible  sky, 

And  the  earth  when  the  snow  torrents  race. 


Some  will  sink  by  the  way  and  be  laid 
In  the  frost  of  the  desolate  earth ; 
And  some  will  return  to  a  maid, 
Empty  of  hand  as  at  birth. 


But  this  out  of  all  will  remain, 
They  have  lived  and  have  tossed ; 
So  much  in  the  game  will  be  gain, 
Though  the  gold  of  the  dice  has  been  lost. 


206 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    RUSH    TO    ATLIN    LAKE 

IT  took  me  longer  to  get  under  way,  for  I  had  deter 
mined  to  take  at  least  thirty  days'  provisions  for  myself 
and  a  newspaper  man  who  joined  me  here.  Our  sup 
plies,  together  with  tent,  tools,  and  clothing,  made  a 
considerable  outfit.  However,  in  a  few  days  we  were 
ready  to  move,  and  when  I  again  took  my  place  at  the 
head  of  a  little  pack  train  it  seemed  quite  in  the  natural 
order  of  things. 

We  left  late  in  the  day  with  intent  to  camp  at  the 
little  village  of  White  Pass,  which  was  the  end  of  the 
wagon  road  and  some  twelve  miles  away.  We  moved 
out  of  town  along  a  road  lined  with  refuse,  camp-bot 
toms,  ruined  cabins,  tin  cans,  and  broken  bottles,  —  all 
the  unsightly  debris  of  the  rush  of  May  and  June.  A 
part  of  the  way  had  been  corduroyed,  for  which  I  was 
exceedingly  grateful,  for  the  Skagway  River  roared  sav 
agely  under  our  feet,  while  on  either  side  of  the  roadway 
at  other  points  I  could  see  abysses  of  mud  which,  in  the 
growing  darkness,  were  sufficiently  menacing. 

Our  course  was  a  northerly  one.  We  were  ascend 
ing  the  ever  narrowing  canon  of  the  river  at  a  gentle 
grade,  with  snowy  mountains  in  vista.  We  arrived  at 

207 


208  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

White  Pass  at  about  ten  o'clock  at  night.  A  little  town 
is  springing  up  there,  confident  of  being  an  important  sta 
tion  on  the  railroad  which  was  already  built  to  that  point. 

Thus  far  the  journey  had  been  easy  and  simple,  but 
immediately  after  leaving  White  Pass  we  entered  upon 
an  exceedingly  stony  road,  filled  with  sharp  rock  which 
had  been  blasted  from  the  railway  above  us.  Upon 
reaching  the  end  of  the  wagon  road,  and  entering  upon 
the  trail,  we  came  upon  the  Way  of  Death.  The  waters 
reeked  with  carrion.  The  breeze  was  the  breath  of 
carrion,  and  all  nature  was  made  indecent  and  disgust 
ing  by  the  presence  of  carcasses.  Within  the  distance 
of  fifteen  miles  we  passed  more  than  two  thousand  dead 
horses.  It  was  a  cruel  land,  a  land  filled  with  the 
record  of  men's  merciless  greed.  Nature  herself  was 
cold,  majestic,  and  grand.  The  trail  rough,  hard, 
and  rocky.  The  horses  labored  hard  under  their  heavy 
burdens,  though  the  floor  they  trod  was  always  firm. 

Just  at  the  summit  in  the  gray  mist,  where  a  bulbous 
granite  ridge  cut  blackly  and  lonesomely  against  the 
sky,  we  overtook  a  flock  of  turkeys  being  driven  by  a 
one-armed  man  with  a  singularly  appropriate  Scotch  cap 
on  his  head.  The  birds  sat  on  the  bleak  gray  rocks  in 
the  gathering  dusk  with  the  suggestion  of  being  utterly 
at  the  end  of  the  world.  Their  feathers  were  blown 
awry  by  the  merciless  wind  and  they  looked  weary, 
disconsolate,  and  bewildered.  Their  faint,  sad  gobbling 
was  like  the  talk  of  sick  people  lost  in  a  desert.  They 
were  on  their  way  to  Dawson  City  to  their  death  and 
they  seemed  to  know  it. 


The  Rush  to  Atlin  Lake  209 

We  camped  at  the  Halfway  House,  a  big  tent  sur 
rounded  by  the  most  diabolical  landscape  of  high  peaks 
lost  in  mist,  with  near-by  slopes  of  gray  rocks  scantily 
covered  with  yellow-green  grass.  All  was  bare,  wild, 
desolate,  and  drear.  The  wind  continued  to  whirl  down 
over  the  divide,  carrying  torn  gray  masses  of  vapor 
which  cast  a  gloomy  half  light  across  the  gruesome 
little  meadow  covered  with  rotting  carcasses  and  crates 
of  bones  which  rilled  the  air  with  odor  of  disease  and 
death. 

Within  the  tent,  which  flopped  and  creaked  in  the 
wind,  we  huddled  about  the  cook-stove  in  the  light  of  a 
lantern,  listening  to  the  loud  talk  of  a  couple  of  packers 
who  were  discussing  their  business  with  enormous  en 
thusiasm.  Happily  they  grew  sleepy  at  last  and  peace 
settled  upon  us.  I  unrolled  my  sleeping  bag  and  slept 
dreamlessly  until  the  "  Russian  nobleman,"  who  did  the 
cooking,  waked  me. 

Morning  broke  bleak  and  desolate.  Mysterious 
clouds  which  hid  the  peaks  were  still  streaming  wildly 
down  the  canon.  We  got  away  at  last,  leaving  behind 
us  that  sad  little  meadow  and  its  gruesome  lakes,  and 
began  the  slow  and  toilsome  descent  over  slippery  ledges 
of  rock,  among  endless  rows  of  rotting  carcasses,  over 
poisonous  streams  and  through  desolate,  fire-marked,  and 
ghastly  forests  of  small  pines.  Everywhere  were  the 
traces  of  the  furious  flood  of  humankind  that  had  broken 
over  this  height  in  the  early  spring.  Wreckage  of 
sleighs,  abandoned  tackle,  heaps  of  camp  refuse,  cloth 
ing,  and  most  eloquent  of  all  the  pathway  itself,  worn 


2io  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

into  the  pitiless  iron  ledges,  made  it  possible  for  me  to 
realize  something  of  the  scene. 

Down  there  in  the  gully,  on  the  sullen  drift  of  snow, 
the  winter  trail  could  still  be  seen  like  an  unclean  rib 
bon  and  here,  where  the  shrivelled  hides  of  horses  lay 
thick,  wound  the  summer  pathway.  Up  yonder  sum 
mit,  lock-stepped  like  a  file  of  convicts,  with  tongues 
protruding  and  breath  roaring  from  their  distended 
throats,  thousands  of  men  had  climbed  with  killing 
burdens  on  their  backs,  mad  to  reach  the  great  inland 
river  and  the  gold  belt.  Like  the  men  of  the  Long 
Trail,  they,  too,  had  no  time  to  find  the  gold  under  their 
feet. 

It  was  terrible  to  see  how  on  every  slippery  ledge  the 
ranks  of  horses  had  broken  like  waves  to  fall  in  heaps 
like  rows  of  seaweed,  tumbled,  contorted,  and  grinning. 
Their  dried  skins  had  taken  on  the  color  of  the  soil,  so 
that  I  sometimes  set  foot  upon  them  without  realizing 
what  they  were.  Many  of  them  had  saddles  on  and 
nearly  all  had  lead-ropes.  Some  of  them  had  even  been 
tied  to  trees  and  left  to  starve. 

In  all  this  could  be  read  the  merciless  greed  and  im 
practicability  of  these  goldseekers.  Men  who  had  never 
driven  a  horse  in  their  lives,  and  had  no  idea  what  an  ani 
mal  could  do,  or  what  he  required  to  eat,  loaded  their 
outfits  upon  some  poor  patient  beast  and  drove  him  with 
out  feed  until,  weakened  and  insecure  of  foot,  he  slipped 
and  fell  on  some  one  of  these  cruel  ledges  of  flinty  rock. 

The  business  of  packing,  however,  had  at  last  fallen 
into  less  cruel  or  at  least  more  judicial  hands,  and 


The  Rush  to  Atlin   Lake  211 

though  the  trail  was  filled  with  long  pack  trains  going 
and  coming,  they  were  for  the  most  part  well  taken  care 
of.  We  met  many  long  trains  of  packhorses  returning 
empty  from  Bennett  Lake.  They  were  followed  by 
shouting  drivers  who  clattered  along  on  packhorses 
wherever  the  trail  would  permit. 

One  train  carried  four  immense  trunks — just  behind 
the  trunks,  mounted  astride  of  one  of  the  best  horses, 
rode  a  bold-faced,  handsome  white  woman  followed  by 
a  huge  negress.  The  white  woman  had  made  her  pile 
by  dancing  a  shameless  dance  in  the  dissolute  dens  of 
Dawson  City,  and  was  on  her  way  to  Paris  or  New 
York  for  a  "good  time."  The  reports  of  the  hotel 
keepers  made  her  out  to  be  unspeakably  vile.  The 
negress  was  quite  decent  by  contrast. 

At  Log  Cabin  we  came  in  sight  of  the  British  flag 
which  marks  the  boundary  line  of  United  States  territory, 
where  a  camp  of  mounted  police  and  the  British  cus 
toms  officer  are  located.  It  was  a  drear  season  even  in 
midsummer,  a  land  of  naked  ledges  and  cold  white 
peaks.  A  few  small  pine  trees  furnished  logs  for  the 
cabins  and  wood  for  their  fires.  The  government 
offices  were  located  in  tents. 

I  found  the  officers  most  courteous,  and  the  customs 
fair.  The  treatment  given  me  at  Log  Cabin  was  in 
marked  contrast  with  the  exactions  of  my  own  govern 
ment  at  Wrangell.  All  goods  were  unloaded  before  the 
inspector's  tent  and  quickly  examined.  The  miner 
suffered  very  little  delay. 

A  number  of  badly  maimed  packhorses  were  running 


212  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

about  on  the  American  side.  I  was  told  that  the  police 
had  stopped  them  by  reason  of.  their  sore  backs.  If  a 
man  came  to  the  line  with  horses  overloaded  or  suffer 
ing,  he  was  made  to  strip  the  saddles  from  their  backs. 

"  You  can't  cross  this  line  with  animals  like  that," 
was  the  stern  sentence  in  many  cases.  This  humanity, 
as  unexpected  as  it  was  pleasing,  deserves  the  best  word 
of  praise  of  which  I  am  capable. 

At  last  we  left  behind  us  all  these  wrecks  of  horse 
flesh,  these  poisonous  streams,  and  came  down  upon 
Lake  Bennett,  where  the  water  was  considered  safe  to 
drink,  and  where  the  eye  could  see  something  besides 
death-spotted  ledges  of  savage  rocks. 

The  town  was  a  double  row  of  tents,  and  log  huts 
set  close  to  the  beach  whereon  boats  were  building  and 
saws  and  hammers  were  uttering  a  cheerful  chorus. 
Long  trains  of  packhorses  filled  the  streets.  The 
wharfs  swarmed  with  men  loading  chickens,  pigs,  vegeta 
bles,  furniture,  boxes  of  dry-goods,  stoves,  and  every 
other  conceivable  domestic  utensil  into  big  square  barges, 
which  were  rigged  with  tall  strong  masts  bearing  most 
primitive  sails.  It  was  a  busy  scene,  but  of  course  very 
quiet  as  compared  with  the  activity  of  May,  June,  and 

July- 

These  barges  appealed  to  me  very  strongly.  They 
were  in  some  cases  floating  homes,  a  combination  of 
mover's  wagon  and  river  boat.  Many  of  them  con 
tained  women  and  children,  with  accompanying  cats  and 
canary  birds.  In  every  face  was  a  look  of  exultant  faith 
in  the  venture.  They  were  bound  for  Dawson  City. 


The  Rush  to  Atlin  Lake  213 

The  men  for  Atlin  were  setting  forth  in  rowboats,  or 
were  waiting  for  the  little  steamers  which  had  begun  to 
ply  between  Bennett  City  and  the  new  gold  fields. 

I  set  my  little  tent,  which  was  about  as  big  as  a  dog 
kennel,  and  crawled  into  it  early,  in  order  to  be  shielded 
from  the  winds,  which  grew  keen  as  sword  blades  as  the 
sun  sank  behind  the  western  mountains.  The  sky  was 
like  November,  and  I  wondered  where  Burton  was 
encamped.  I  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to  have 
had  him  with  me  on  this  trip. 


THE  COAST  RANGE  OF  ALASKA 

The  wind  roars  up  from  the  angry  sea 
With  a  message  of  warning  and  haste  to  me. 
It  bids  me  go  where  the  asters  blow, 
And  the  sun-flower  waves  in  the  sunset  glow. 
From  the  granite  mountains  the  glaciers  crawl, 
In  snow-white  spray  the  waters  fall. 
The  bay  is  white  with  the  crested  waves, 
And  ever  the  sea  wind  ramps  and  raves. 

I  hate  this  cold,  bleak  northern  land, 

I  fear  its  snow-flecked  harborless  strand  — 

I  fly  to  the  south  as  a  homing  dove, 

Back  to  the  land  of  corn  I  love. 

And  never  again  shall  I  set  my  feet 

Where  the  snow  and  the  sea  and  the  mountains  meet. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

ATLIN    LAKE    AND    THE    GOLD    FIELDS 

THERE  is  nothing  drearier  than  camping  on  the  edge 
of  civilization  like  this,  where  one  is  surrounded  by  ill 
smells,  invaded  by  streams  of  foul  dust,  and  deprived  of 
wood  and  clear  water.  I  was  exceedingly  eager  to  get 
away,  especially  as  the  wind  continued  cold  and  very 
searching.  It  was  a  long  dull  day  of  waiting. 

At  last  the  boat  came  in  and  we  trooped  aboard  —  a 
queer  mixture  of  men  and  bundles.  The  boat  itself  was 
a  mere  scow  with  an  upright  engine  in  the  centre  and  a 
stern-wheel  tacked  on  the  outside.  There  were  no 
staterooms,  of  course,  and  almost  no  bunks.  The  in 
terior  resembled  a  lumberman's  shanty. 

We  moved  off  towing  a  big  scow  laden  with  police 
supplies  for  Tagish  House.  The  wind  was  very  high 
and  pushed  steadily  behind,  or  we  would  not  have  gone 
faster  than  a  walk.  We  had  some  eight  or  ten  passen 
gers,  all  bound  for  the  new  gold  fields,  and  these  together 
with  their  baggage  and  tools  filled  the  boat  to  the  utmost 
corner.  The  feeling  of  elation  among  these  men  re 
minded  me  of  the  great  land  boom  of  Dakota  in  1883, 
in  which  I  took  a  part.  There  was  something  fine  and 
free  and  primitive  in  it  all. 

217 


21 8  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

We  cooked  our  supper  on  the  boat's  stove,  furnish 
ing  our  own  food  from  the  supplies  we  were  taking  in  with 
us.  The  ride  promised  to  be  very  fine.  We  made  off 
down  the  narrow  lake,  which  lies  between  two  walls  of 
high  bleak  mountains,  but  far  in  the  distance  more  al 
luring  ranges  arose.  There  was  no  sign  of  mineral  in 
the  near-by  peaks. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  wind  became  so  high  and 
the  captain  of  our  boat  so  timid,  we  were  forced  to  lay 
by  for  the  night  and  so  swung  around  under  a  point, 
seeking  shelter  from  the  wind,  which  became  each 
moment  more  furious.  I  made  my  bed  down  on  the 
roof  of  the  boat  and  went  to  sleep  looking  at  the  drifting 
clouds  overhead.  Once  or  twice  during  the  night  when 
I  awoke  I  heard  the  howling  blast  sweeping  by  with 
increasing  power. 

All  the  next  day  we  loitered  on  Bennett  Lake  —  the 
wind  roaring  without  ceasing,  and  the  white-caps  run 
ning  like  hares.  We  drifted  at  last  into  a  cove  and 
there  lay  in  shelter  till  six  o'clock  at  night.  The  sky 
was  clear  and  the  few  clouds  were  gloriously  bright  and 
cool  and  fleecy. 

We  met  several  canoes  of  goldseekers  on  their  re 
turn  who  shouted  doleful  warnings  at  us  and  cursed  the 
worthlessness  of  the  district  to  which  we  were  bound. 
They  all  looked  exceedingly  dirty,  ragged,  and  sour  of  vis 
age.  At  the  same  time,  however,  boat  after  boat  went 
sailing  down  past  us  on  their  way  to  Atlin  and  Dawson. 
They  drove  straight  before  the  wind,  and  for  the  most 
part  experienced  little  danger,  all  of  which  seemed  to 


Atlin   Lake  and  the  Gold  Fields        219 

us  to  emphasize  the  unnecessary  timidity  of  our  own 
captain. 

There  was  a  charm  in  this  wild  spot,  but  we  were  too 
impatient  to  enjoy  it.  There  were  men  on  board  who 
felt  that  they  were  being  cheated  of  a  chance  to  get  a 
gold  mine,  and  when  the  wind  began  to  fall  we  fired  up 
and  started  down  the  lake.  As  deep  night  came  on  I 
made  my  bed  on  the  roof  again  and  went  to  sleep  with 
the  flying  sparks  lining  the  sky  overhead.  I  was  in 
some  danger  of  being  set  on  fire,  but  I  preferred  sleeping 
there  to  sleeping  on  the  floor  inside  the  boat,  where  the 
reek  of  tobacco  smoke  was  sickening. 

When  I  awoke  we  were  driving  straight  up  Tagish 
Lake,  a  beautiful,  clear,  green  and  blue  spread  of  rip 
pling  water  with  lofty  and  boldly  outlined  peaks  on  each 
side.  The  lake  ran  from  southeast  to  northwest  and 
was  much  larger  than  any  map  shows.  We  drove 
steadily  for  ten  hours  up  this  magnificent  water  with 
ever  increasing  splendor  of  scenery,  arriving  about  sun 
set  at  Taku  City,  which  we  found  to  be  a  little  group  of 
tents  at  the  head  of  Taku  arm. 

Innumerable  boats  of  every  design  fringed  the  shore. 
Men  were  coming  and  men  were  going,  producing  a  be 
wildering  clash  of  opinions  with  respect  to  the  value  of 
the  mines.  A  few  of  these  to  whom  we  spoke  said, 
"  It's  all  a  fake,"  and  others  were  equally  certain  it  was 
"  All  right." 

A  short  portage  was  necessary  to  reach  Atlin  Lake, 
and  taking  a  part  of  our  baggage  upon  our  shoulders  we 
hired  the  remainder  packed  on  horses  and  within  an  hour 


22O          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

were  moving  up  the  smooth  path  under  the  small  black 
pines,  across  the  low  ridge  which  separates  the  two  lakes. 
At  the  top  of  this  ridge  we  were  able  to  look  out  over  the 
magnificent  spread  of  Atlin  Lake,  which  was  more  beau 
tiful  in  every  way  than  Tagish  or  Taku.  It  is,  in  fact, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  lakes  I  have  ever  seen. 

Far  to  the  southeast  it  spread  until  it  was  lost  to  view 
among  the  bases  of  the  gigantic  glacier-laden  mountains 
of  the  coast  range.  To  the  left  —  that  is  to  the  north 
—  it  seemed  to  divide,  enclosing  a  splendid  dome-shaped 
solitary  mountain,  one  fork  moving  to  the  east,  the  other 
to  the  west.  Its  end  could  not  be  determined  by  the 
eye  in  either  direction.  Its  width  was  approximately 
about  ten  miles. 

At  the  end  of  the  trail  we  found  an  enterprising  Ca 
nadian  with  a  naphtha  launch  ready  to  ferry  us  across 
to  Atlin  City,  but  were  forced  to  wait  for  some  one  who 
had  gone  back  to  Taku  for  a  second  load. 

While  we  were  waiting,  the  engineer,  who  was  a 
round-faced  and  rather  green  boy,  fell  under  the  influ 
ences  of  a  large,  plump,  and  very  talkative  lady  who 
made  the  portage  just  behind  us.  She  so  absorbed  and 
fascinated  the  lad  that  he  let  the  engine  run  itself  into 
some  cramp  of  piston  or  wheel.  There  was  a  sudden 
crunching  sound  and  the  propeller  stopped.  The  boy 
minimized  the  accident,  but  the  captain  upon  arrival 
told  us  it  would  be  necessary  to  unload  from  the  boat 
while  the  engine  was  being  repaired. 

It  was  now  getting  dark,  and  as  it  was  pretty  evident 
that  the  repairs  on  the  boat  would  take  a  large  part  of 


Atlin  Lake  and  the  Gold  Fields        221 

the  night,  we  camped  where  we  were.  The  talkative 
lady,  whom  the  irreverent  called  "the  glass  front,"  oc 
cupied  a  tent  which  belonged  to  the  captain  of  the  launch 
and  the  rest  of  us  made  our  beds  down  under  the  big 
trees. 

A  big  fire  was  built  and  around  this  we  sat,  doing 
more  or  less  talking.  There  was  an  old  Tennesseean  in 
the  party  from  Dawson,  who  talked  interminably.  He 
told  us  of  his  troubles,  trials,  and  victories  in  Dawson  : 
how  he  had  been  successful,  how  he  had  fallen  ill,  and 
how  his  life  had  been  saved  by  a  good  old  miner  who 
gave  him  an  opportunity  to  work  over  his  dump.  Sick 
as  he  was  he  was  able  in  a  few  days  to  find  gold  enough 
to  take  him  out  of  the  country  to  a  doctor.  He  was 
now  on  his  way  back  to  his  claim  and  professed  to  be 
very  sceptical  of  Atlin  and  every  other  country  except 
Dawson. 

The  plump  lady  developed  exceedingly  kittenish  man 
ners  late  in  the  evening,  and  invited  the  whole  company 
to  share  her  tent.  A  singular  type  of  woman,  capable 
of  most  ladylike  manners  and  having  astonishingly  sen 
sible  moments,  but  inexpressibly  silly  most  of  the  time. 
She  was  really  a  powerful,  self-confident,  and  shrewd 
woman,  but  preferred  to  seem  young  and  helpless.  Al 
together  the  company  was  sufficiently  curious.  There 
was  a  young  civil  engineer  from  New  York  City,  a 
land  boomer  from  Skagway,  an  Irishman  from  Juneau, 
a  representative  of  a  New  York  paper,  one  or  two  nonde 
scripts  from  the  States,  and  one  or  two  prospectors  from 
Quebec.  The  night  was  cold  and  beautiful  and  my 


222  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

partner  and  I,  by  going  sufficiently  far  away  from  the 
old  Tennesseean  and  the  plump  lady,  were  able  to  sleep 
soundly  until  sunrise. 

The  next  morning  we  hired  a  large  unpainted  skiff 
and  by  working  very  hard  ourselves  in  addition  to  pay 
ing  full  fare  we  reached  camp  at  about  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  Atlin  City  was  also  a  clump  of  tents  half 
hidden  in  the  trees  on  the  beach  of  the  lake  near  the 
mouth  of  Pine  Creek.  The  lake  was  surpassingly  beau 
tiful  under  the  morning  sun. 

A  crowd  of  sullen,  profane,  and  grimy  men  were 
lounging  around,  cursing  the  commissioners  and  the  po 
lice.  The  beach  was  fringed  with  rowboats  and  ca 
noes,  like  a  New  England  fishing  village,  and  all  day  long 
men  were  loading  themselves  into  these  boats,  hungry, 
tired,  and  weary,  hastening  back  to  Skagway  or  the  coast; 
while  others,  fresh,  buoyant,  and  hopeful,  came  gliding  in. 

To  those  who  came,  the  sullen  and  disappointed  ones 
who  were  about  to  go  uttered  approbrious  cries  :  u  See 
the  damn  fools  come  !  What  d'you  think  you're  doin'  ? 
On  a  fishin'  excursion  ?  " 

We  went  into  camp  on  the  water  front,  and  hour  after 
hour  men  laden  with  packs  tramped  ceaselessly  to  and 
fro  along  the  pathway  just  below  our  door.  I  was  now 
chief  cook  and  bottle  washer,  my  partner,  who  was  en 
tirely  unaccustomed  to  work  of  this  kind,  having  the 
status  of  a  boarder. 

The  lake  was  a  constant  joy  to  us.  As  the  sun  sank 
the  glacial  mountains  to  the  southwest  became  most 
royal  in  their  robes  of  purple  and  silver.  The  sky  filled 


Atlin  Lake  and  the  Gold  Fields        223 

with  crimson  and  saffron  clouds  which  the  lake  reflected 
like  a  mirror.  The  little  rocky  islands  drowsed  in  the 
mist  like  some  strange  monsters  sleeping  on  the  bosom 
of  the  water.  The  men  were  filthy  and  profane  for  the 
most  part,  and  made  enjoyment  of  nature  almost  im 
possible.  Many  of  them  were  of  the  rudest  and  most 
uninteresting  types,  nomads  —  almost  tramps.  They 
had  nothing  of  the  epic  qualities  which  belong  to  the 
mountaineers  and  natural  miners  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains.  Many  of  them  were  loafers  and  ne'er-do-wells 
from  Skagway  and  other  towns  of  the  coast. 

We  had  a  gold  pan,  a  spade,  and  a  pick.  Therefore 
early  the  next  morning  we  flung  a  little  pack  of  grub 
over  our  shoulders  and  set  forth  to  test  the  claims  which 
were  situated  upon  Pine  Creek,  a  stream  which  entered 
Lake  Atlin  near  the  camp.  It  was  said  to  be  eighteen 
miles  long  and  Discovery  claim  was  some  eight  miles  up. 

We  traced  our  way  up  the  creek  as  far  as  Discovery 
and  back,  panning  dirt  at  various  places  with  resulting 
colors  in  some  cases.  The  trail  was  full  of  men  racking 
to  and  fro  with  heavy  loads  on  their  backs.  They  moved 
in  little  trains  of  four  or  five  or  six  men,  some  going  out 
of  the  country,  others  coming  in  —  about  an  equal  num 
ber  each  way.  Everything  along  the  creek  was  staked, 
and  our  test  work  resulted  in  nothing  more  than  gaining 
information  with  regard  to  what  was  going  on. 

The  camps  on  the  hills  at  night  swarmed  with  men 
in  hot  debate.  The  majority  believed  the  camps  to  be 
a  failure,  and  loud  discussions  resounded  from  the  trees 
as  partner  and  I  sat  at  supper.  The  town-site  men 


224  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

were  very  nervous.  The  camps  were  decreasing  in 
population,  and  the  tone  was  one  of  general  foreboding. 
The  campfires  flamed  all  along  the  lake  walk,  and 
the  talk  of  each  group  could  be  overheard  by  any  one 
who  listened.  Altercations  went  on  with  clangorous 

p 

fury.  Almost  every  party  was  in  division.  Some  en 
thusiastic  individual  had  made  a  find,  or  had  seen  some 
one  else  who  had.  His  cackle  reached  other  groups, 
and  out  of  the  dark  hulking  figures  loomed  to  listen  or 
to  throw  in  hot  missiles  of  profanity.  •  Phrases  multi 
plied,  mingling  inextricably. 

"  Morgan  claims  thirty  cents  to  the  pan  ....  good  creek 
claim  ....  his  sluice  is  about  ready  ....  a  clean-up  last  night 
....  I  don't  believe  it ....  No,  Sir,  I  wouldn't  give  a  hundred 
dollars  for  the  whole  damn  moose  pasture.... Well,  it's 
good  enough  for  me  ....  I  tell  you  it's  rotten,  the  whole 
damn  cheese  ....You've  got  to  stand  in  with  the  police 
or  you  can't  get .... "  and  so  on  and  on  unendingly, 
without  coherence.  I  went  to  'sleep  only  when  the 
sound  of  the  wordy  warfare  died  away. 

I  permitted  myself  a  day  of  rest.  Borrowing  a  boat 
next  day,  we  went  out  upon  the  water  and  up  to  the 
mouth  of  Pine  Creek,  where  we  panned  some  dirt  to 
amuse  ourselves.  The  lake  was  like  liquid  glass,  the 
bottom  visible  at  an  enormous  depth.  It  made  me 
think  of  the  marvellous  water  of  McDonald  Lake  in  the 
Kalispels.  I  steered  the  boat  (with  a  long-handled  spade) 
and  so  was  able  to  look  about  me  and  absorb  at  ease  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  this  unbroken  and  unhewn  wilder 
ness.  The  clouds  were  resplendent,  and  in  every  direc- 


Atlin  Lake  and  the  Gold  Fields        225 

tion  the  lake  vistas  were  ideally  beautiful  and  constantly 
changing. 

Toward  night  the  sky  grew  thick  and  heavy  with 
clouds.  The  water  of  the  lake  was  like  molten  jewels, 
ruby  and  amethyst.  The  boat  seemed  floating  in  some 
strange,  ethereal  substance  hitherto  unknown  to  man  — 
translucent  and  iridescent.  The  mountains  loomed  like 
dim  purple  pillars  at  the  western  gate  of  the  world,  and 
the  rays  of  the  half-hidden  sun  plunging  athwart  these 
sentinels  sank  deep  into  the  shining  flood.  Later  the 
sky  cleared,  and  the  inverted  mountains  in  the  lake  were 
scarcely  less  vivid  than  those  which  rose  into  the  sky. 

The  next  day  I  spent  with  gold  pan  and  camera, 
working  my  way  up  Spruce  Creek,  a  branch  of  Pine. 
I  found  men  cheerily  at  work  getting  out  sluice  boxes 
and  digging  ditches.  I  panned  everywhere,  but  did  not 
get  much  in  the  way  of  colors,  but  the  creek  seemed 
to  grow  better  as  I  went  up,  and  promised  very  rich 
returns.  I  came  back  rushing,  making  five  miles  just 
inside  an  hour,  hungry  and  tired. 

The  crowded  camp  thinned  out.  The  faint-hearted 
ones  who  had  no  courage  to  sweat  for  gold  sailed  away. 
Others  went  out  upon  their  claims  to  build  cabins  and 
lay  sluices.  I  found  them  whip-sawing  lumber,  building 
cabins,  and  digging  ditches.  Each  day  the  news  grew 
more  encouraging,  each  day  brought  the  discovery  of  a 
new  creek  or  a  lake.  Men  came  back  in  swarms  and 
reporting  finds  on  u  Lake  Surprise,"  a  newly  discovered 
big  body  of  water,  and  at  last  came  the  report  of  surpris 
ing  discoveries  in  the  benches  high  above  the  creek. 


226  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

In  the  camp  one  night  I  heard  a  couple  of  men  talk 
ing  around  a  campfire  near  me.  One  of  them  said  : 
"Why,  you  know  old  Sperry  was  digging  on  the  ridge 
just  above  Discovery  and  I  came  along  and  see  him  up 
there.  And  I  said,  c  Hullo,  uncle,  what  you  doin',  diggin' 
your  grave  ?  '  And  the  old  feller  said,  '  You  just  wait  a 
few  minutes  and  I'll  show  ye.'  Well,  sir,  he  filled  up  a 
sack  o'  dirt  and  toted  it  down  to  the  creek,  and  I  went 
along  with  him  to  see  him  wash  it  out,  and  say,  he  took 
$3.25  out  of  one  pan  of  that  dirt,  and  $1.85  out  of  the 
other  pan.  Well,  that  knocked  me.  I  says,  '  Uncle, 
you're  all  right.'  And  then  I  made  tracks  for  a  bench 
claim  next  him.  Well,  about  that  time  everybody  began 
to  hustle  for  bench  claims,  and  now  you  can't  get  one 
anywhere  near  him." 

At  another  camp,  a  packer  was  telling  of  an  immense 
nugget  that  had  been  discovered  somewhere  on  the 
upper  waters  of  Birch  Creek.  "  And  say,  fellers,  you 
know  there  is  another  lake  up  there  pretty  near  as  big  as 
Atlin.  They  are  calling  it  Lake  Surprise.  I  heard  a 
feller  say  a  few  days  ago  there  was  a  big  lake  up  there 
and  I  thought  he  meant  a  lake  six  or  eight  miles  long. 
On  the  very  high  ground  next  to  Birch,  you  can  look 
down  over  that  lake  and  I  bet  it's  sixty  miles  long.  It 
must  reach  nearly  to  Teslin  Lake."  There  was  some 
thing  pretty  fine  in  the  thought  of  being  in  a  country 
where  lakes  sixty  miles  long  were  being  discovered 
and  set  forth  on  the  maps  of  the  world.  Up  to  this 
time  Atlin  Lake  itself  was  unmapped.  To  an  un 
practical  man  like  myself  it  was  reward  enough  to  feel 


Atlin  Lake  and  the  Gold  Fields        227 

the  thrill   of  excitement   which   comes   with   such  dis 
coveries. 

However,  I  was  not  a  goldseeker,  and  when  I  deter 
mined  to  give  up  any  further  pursuit  of  mining  and  to 
delegate  it  entirely  to  my  partner,  I  experienced  a  feeling 
of  relief.  I  determined  to  "  stick  to  my  last,"  notwith 
standing  the  fascination  which  I  felt  in  the  sight  of  placer 
gold.  Quartz  mining  has  never  had  the  slightest  attrac 
tion  for  me,  but  to  see  the  gold  washed  out  of  the  sand, 
to  see  it  appear  bright  and  shining  in  the  black  sand  in 
the  bottom  of  the  pan,  is  really  worth  while.  It  is  first 
hand  contact  with  Nature's  stores  of  wealth. 

I  went  up  to  Discovery  for  the  last  time  with  my 
camera  slung  over  my  shoulder,  and  my  note-book  in 
hand  to  take  a  final  survey  of  the  miners  and  to  hear  for 
the  last  time  their  exultant  talk.  I  found  them  exceed 
ingly  cheerful,  even  buoyant. 

The  men  who  had  gone  in  with  ten  days'  provisions, 
the  tender-foot  miners,  the  men  u  with  a  cigarette  and  a 
sandwich,"  had  gone  out.  Those  who  remained  were 
men  who  knew  their  business  and  were  resolute  and 
self-sustaining. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  such  men  around  the  land-office 
tents  and  many  filings  were  made.  Nearly  every  man 
had  his  little  phial  of  gold  to  show.  No  one  was  loud, 
but  every  one  seemed  to  be  quietly  confident  and  replied 
to  my  questions  in  a  low  voice,  "  Well,  you  can  safely 
say  the  country  is  all  right." 

The  day  was  fine  like  September  in  Wisconsin.  The 
lake  as  I  walked  back  to  it  was  very  alluring.  My  mind 


228  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

returned  again  and  again  to  the  things  I  had  left  behind 
for  so  long.  My  correspondence,  my  books,  my  friends, 
all  the  literary  interests  of  my  life,  began  to  reassert 
their  dominion  over  me.  For  some  time  I  had  realized 
that  this  was  almost  an  ideal  spot  for  camping  or  mining. 
Just  over  in  the  wild  country  toward  Teslin  Lake,  herds 
of  caribou  were  grazing.  Moose  and  bear  were  being 
killed  daily,  rich  and  unknown  streams  were  waiting  for 
the  gold  pan,  the  pick  and  the  shovel,  but  —  it  was  not 
for  me  !  I  was  ready  to  return  —  eager  to  return. 


THE     FREEMAN     OF    THE    HILLS 

I  have  no  master  but  the  wind, 

My  only  liege  the  sun ; 
All  bonds  and  ties  I  leave  behind, 

Free  as  the  wolf  I  run. 
My  master  wind  is  passionless, 

He  neither  chides  nor  charms ; 
He  fans  me  or  he  freezes  me, 

And  helps  are  quick  as  harms. 

He  never  turns  to  injure  me, 

And  when  his  voice  is  high 
I  crouch  behind  a  rock  and  see 

His  storm  of  snows  go  by. 
He  too  is  subject  of  the  sun, 

As  all  things  earthly  are, 
Where'er  he  flies,  where'er  I  run, 

We  know  our  kingly  star. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    MAPLE    TREE 

I  am  worn  with  the  dull-green  spires  of  fir, 

I  am  tired  of  endless  talk  of  gold, 

I  long  for  the  cricket's  cheery  whirr, 

And  the  song  that  the  maples  sang  of  old. 

O  the  beauty  and  learning  and  light 

That  lie  in  the  leaves  of  the  level  lands  ! 

They  shake  my  heart  in  the  deep  of  the  night, 

They  call  me  and  bless  me  with  calm,  cool  hands. 

Sing,  O  leaves  of  the  maple  tree, 
I  hear  your  voice  by  the  savage  sea, 
Hear  and  hasten  to  home  and  thee  ! 


230 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE    END    OF    THE    TRAIL 

THE  day  on  which  I  crossed  the  lake  to  Taku  City 
was  most  glorious.  A  September  haze  lay  on  the 
mountains,  whose  high  slopes,  orange,  ruby,  and  golden- 
green,  allured  with  almost  irresistible  attraction.  Al 
though  the  clouds  were  gathering  in  the  east,  the  sun 
set  was  superb.  Taku  arm  seemed  a  river  of  gold 
sweeping  between  gates  of  purple.  As  the  darkness 
came  on,  a  long  creeping  line  of  fire  crept  up  a  near-by 
mountain's  side,  and  from  time  to  time,  as  it  reached 
some  great  pine,  it  flamed  to  the  clouds  like  a  mighty 
geyser  of  red-hot  lava.  It  was  splendid  but  terrible  to 
witness. 

The  next  day  was  a  long,  long  wait  for  the  steamer. 
I  now  had  in  my  pocket  just  twelve  dollars,  but  pos 
sessed  a  return. ticket  on  one  of  the  boats.  This  ticket 
was  not  good  on  any  other  boat,  and  naturally  I  felt 
considerable  anxiety  for  fear  it  would  not  turn  up.  My 
dinner  consisted  of  moose  steak,  potatoes,  and  bread,  and 
was  most  thoroughly  enjoyed. 

At  last  the  steamer  came,  but  it  was  not  the  one  on 
which  I  had  secured  passage,  and  as  it  took  almost  my 
last  dollar  to  pay  for  deck  passage  thereon,  I  lived  on 


232  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

some  small  cakes  of  my  own  baking,  which  I  carried 
in  a  bag.  I  was  now  in  a  sad  predicament  unless  I 
should  connect  at  Lake  Bennett  with  some  one  who 
would  carry  my  outfit  back  to  Skagway  on  credit.  I 
ate  my  stale  cakes  and  drank  lake  water,  and  thus  fooled 
the  little  Jap  steward  out  of  two  dollars.  It  was  a  sad 
business,  but  unavoidable. 

The  lake  being  smooth,  the  trip  consumed  but  thir 
teen  hours,  and  we  arrived  at  Bennett  Lake  late  at  night. 
Hoisting  my  bed  and  luggage  to  my  shoulder,  I  went 
up  on  the  side-hill  like  a  stray  dog,  and  made  my  bed 
down  on  the  sand  beside  a  cart,  near  a  shack.  The 
wind,  cold  and  damp,  swept  over  the  mountains  with 
a  roar.  I  was  afraid  the  owners  of  the  cart  might  dis 
cover  me  there,  and  order  me  to  seek  a  bed  elsewhere. 
Dogs  sniffed  around  me  during  the  night,  but  on  the 
whole  I  slept  very  well.  I  could  feel  the  sand  blowing 
over  me  in  the  wild  gusts  of  wind  which  relented  not 
in  all  my  stay  at  Bennett  City. 

I  spent  literally  the  last  cent  I  had  on  a  scanty  break 
fast,  and  then,  in  company  with  Doctor  G.  (a  fellow 
prospector),  started  on  my  return  to  the  coast  over  the 
far-famed  Chilcoot  Pass. 

At  9  A.M.  we  took  the  little  ferry  for  the  head  of 
Lindernan  Lake.  The  doctor  paid  my  fare.  The 
boat,  a  wabbly  craft,  was  crowded  with  returning  Klon- 
dikers,  many  of  whom  were  full  of  importance  and  talk 
of  their  wealth ;  while  others,  sick  and  worn,  with  a 
wistful  gleam  in  their  eyes,  seemed  eager  to  get  back  to 
civilization  and  medical  care.  There  were  some  women, 


The  End  of  the  Trail  233 

also,  who  had  made  a  fortune  in  dance-houses  and 
were  now  bound  for  New  York  and  Paris,  where 
dresses  could  be  had  in  the  latest  styles  and  in  any 
quantities. 

My  travelling  mate,  the  doctor,  was  a  tall  and  vigor 
ous  man  from  Winnipeg,  accustomed  to  a  plainsman's 
life,  hardy  and  resolute.  He  said,  u  We  ought  to 
make  Dyea  to-day."  I  said  in  reply,  "Very  well, 
we  can  try." 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  we  left  the  little  boat  and 
hit  the  trail,  which  was  thirty  miles  long,  and  passed 
over  the  summit  three  thousand  six  hundred  feet  above 
the  sea.  The  doctor's  pace  was  tremendous,  and  we 
soon  left  every  one  else  behind. 

I  carried  my  big  coat  and  camera,  which  hindered 
me  not  a  little.  For  the  first  part  of  the  journey  the 
doctor  preceded  me,  his  broad  shoulders  keeping  off  the 
powerful  wind  and  driving  mist,  which  grew  thicker  as 
we  rose  among  the  ragged  cliffs  beside  a  roaring  stream. 

That  walk  was  a  grim  experience.  Until  two 
o'clock  we  climbed  resolutely  along  a  rough,  rocky,  and 
wooded  trail,  with  the  heavy  mist  driving  into  our  faces. 
The  road  led  up  a  rugged  canon  and  over  a  fairly  good 
wagon  road  until  somewhere  about  twelve  o'clock. 
Then  the  foot  trail  deflected  to  the  left,  and  climbed 
sharply  over  slippery  ledges,  along  banks  of  ancient 
snows  in  which  carcasses  of  horses  lay  embedded,  and 
across  many  rushing  little  streams.  The  way  grew 
grimmer  each  step.  At  last  we  came  to  Crater  Lake, 
and  from  that  point  on  it  was  a  singular  and  sinister 


234  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

land  of  grassless  crags  swathed  in  mist.  Nothing 
could  be  seen  at  this  point  but  a  desolate,  flat  expanse 
of  barren  sands  over  which  gray-green  streams  wan 
dered  in  confusion,  coming  from  darkness  and  vanish 
ing  in  obscurity.  Strange  shapes  showed  in  the  gray 
dusk  of  the  Crater.  It  was  like  a  landscape  in  hell. 
It  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  the  earth,  where  no  life 
had  ever  been  or  could  long  exist. 

Across  this  flat  to  its  farther  wall  we  took  our  way, 
facing  the  roaring  wind  now  heavy  with  clouds  of  rain. 
At  last  we  stood  in  the  mighty  notch  of  the  summit, 
through  which  the  wind  rushed  as  though  hurrying  to 
some  far-off,  deep-hidden  vacuum  in  the  world.  The 
peaks  of  the  mountains  were  lost  in  clouds  out  of  which 
water  fell  in  vicious  slashes. 

The  mist  set  the  imagination  free.  The  pinnacles 
around  us  were  like  those  which  top  the  Valley  of  Deso 
lation.  We  seemed  each  moment  about  to  plunge  into 
ladderless  abysses.  Nothing  ever  imagined  by  Poe  or 
Dore  could  be  more  singular,  more  sinister,  than  these 
summits  in  such  a  light,  in  such  a  storm.  It  might 
serve  as  the  scene  for  an  exiled  devil.  The  picture  of 
Beelzebub  perched  on  one  of  those  gray,  dimly  seen 
crags,  his  form  outlined  in  the  mist,  would  shake  the 
heart.  I  thought  of  "  Peer  Gynt "  wandering  in  the 
high  home  of  the  Trolls.  Crags  beetled  beyond  crags, 
and  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  wild  waters  roaring 
in  the  obscure  depths  beneath  our  feet.  There  was  no 
sky,  no  level  place,  no  growing  thing,  no  bird  or  beast, 
—  only  crates  of  bones  to  show  where  some  heartless 


The  End  of  the  Trail  235 

master  had  pushed  a  faithful  horse  up  these  terrible 
heights  to  his  death. 

And  here  — just  here  in  a  world  of  crags  and  mist  — 
I  heard  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  then  bursting  upon  my 
sight,  strong-limbed,  erect,  and  full-bosomed,  appeared  a 
girl.  Her  face  was  like  a  rain-wet  rose  —  a  splendid,  un 
expected  flower  set  in  this  dim  and  gray  and  desolate 
place.  Fearlessly  she  fronted  me  to  ask  the  way,  a 
laugh  upon  her  lips,  her  big  gray  eyes  confident  of  man's 
chivalry,  modest  and  sincere.  I  had  been  so  long 
among  rude  men  and  their  coarse  consorts  that  this  fair 
woman  lit  the  mist  as  if  with  sudden  sunshine  —  just  a 
moment  and  was  gone.  There  were  others  with  her, 
but  they  passed  unnoticed.  There  in  the  gloom,  like  a 
stately  pink  rose,  I  met  the  Girl  of  the  Mist. 

Sheep  Camp  was  the  end  of  the  worst  portion  of  the 
trail.  I  had  now  crossed  both  the  famed  passes,  much 
improved  of  course.  They  are  no  longer  dangerous  (a 
woman  in  good  health  can  cross  them  easily),  but  they 
are  grim  and  grievous  ways.  They  reek  of  cruelty  and 
every  association  that  is  coarse  and  hard.  They  possess 
a  peculiar  value  to  me  in  that  they  throw  into  fadeless 
splendor  the  wealth,  the  calm,  the  golden  sunlight  which 
lay  upon  the  proud  beauty  of  Atlin  Lake. 

The  last  hours  of  the  trip  formed  a  supreme  test  of 
endurance.  At  Sheep  Camp,  a  wet  and  desolate  shanty 
town,  eight  miles  from  Dyea,  we  came  upon  stages  just 
starting  over  our  road.  But  as  they  were  all  open 
carriages,  and  we  were  both  wet  with  perspiration  and 
rain,  and  hungry  and  tired,  we  refused  to  book  passage. 


236  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

"To  ride  eight  miles  in  an  open  wagon  would  mean 
a  case  of  pneumonia  to  me,"  I  said. 

"Quite  right,"  said  the  doctor,  and  we  pulled  out 
down  the  road  at  a  smart  clip. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  air  was  raw  and  the  sky 
gray,  and  I  was  very  tired,  and  those  eight  miles  stretched 
out  like  a  rubber  string.  Night  fell  before  we  had 
passed  over  half  the  road,  which  lay  for  the  most  part 
down  the  flat  along  the  Chilcoot  River.  In  fact,  we 
crossed  this  stream  again  and  again.  In  places  there 
were  bridges,  but  most  of  the  crossings  were  fords  where 
it  was  necessary  to  wade  through  the  icy  water  above 
our  shoe  tops.  Our  legs,  numb  and  weary,  threw  off 
this  chill  with  greater  pain  each  time.  As  the  night 
fell  we  could  only  see  the  footpath  by  the  dim  shine  of 
its  surface  patted  smooth  by  the  moccasined  feet  of  the 
Indian  packers.  At  last  I  walked  with  a  sort  of  me 
chanical  action  which  was  dependent  on  my  subcon 
scious  will.  There  was  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  go 
through.  The  doctor  was  a  better  walker  than  I.  His 
long  legs  had  more  reach  as  well  as  greater  endurance. 
Nevertheless  he  admitted  being  about  as  tired  as  ever  in 
his  life. 

At  last,  when  it  seemed  as  though  I  could  not  wade 
any  more  of  those  icy  streams  and  continue  to  walk,  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  electric  lights  on  the  wharfs  of 
Dyea,  sparkling  like  jewels  against  the  gray  night. 
Their  radiant  promise  helped  over  the  last  mile  miracu 
lously.  We  were  wet  to  the  knees  and  covered  with 
mud  as  we  entered  upon  the  straggling  street  of  the  de- 


The  End  of  the  Trail  237 

caying  town.  We  stopped  in  at  the  first  restaurant  to 
get  something  hot  to  eat,  but  found  ourselves  almost  too 
tired  to  enjoy  even  pea  soup.  But  it  warmed  us  up  a 
little,  and  keeping  on  down  the  street  we  came  at  last 
to  a  hotel  of  very  comfortable  accommodations.  We 
ordered  a  fire  built  to  dry  our  clothing,  and  staggered  up 
the  stairs. 

That  ended  the  goldseekers'  trail  for  me.  Hencefor 
ward  I  intended  to  ride  —  nevertheless  I  was  pleased  to 
think  I  could  still  walk  thirty  miles  in  eleven  hours 
through  a  rain  storm,  and  over  a  summit  three  thousand 
six  hundred  feet  in  height.  The  city  had  not  entirely 
eaten  the  heart  out  of  my  body. 

We  arose  from  a  dreamless  sleep,  somewhat  sore,  but 
in  amazingly  good  trim  considering  our  condition  the 
night  before,  and  made  our  way  into  our  muddy  cloth 
ing  with  grim  resolution.  After  breakfast  we  took  a 
small  steamer  which  ran  to  Skagway,  where  we  spent 
the  day  arranging  to  take  the  steamer  to  the  south.  We 
felt  quite  at  home  in  Skagway  now,  and  Chicago  seemed 
not  very  far  away.  Having  made  connection  with  my 
bankers  I  stretched  out  in  my  twenty-five  cent  bunk 
with  the  assurance  of  a  gold  king. 

Here  the  long  trail  took  a  turn.  I  had  been  among 
the  miners  and  hunters  for  four  months.  I  had  been 
one  of  them.  I  had  lived  the  essentials  of  their  lives, 
and  had  been  able  to  catch  from  them  some  hint  of  their 
outlook  on  life.  They  were  a  disappointment  to  me  in 
some  ways.  They  seemed  like  mechanisms.  They 
moved  as  if  drawn  by  some  great  magnet  whose  centre 


23  8  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

was  Dawson  City.  They  appeared  to  drift  on  and  in 
toward  that  human  maelstrom  going  irresolutely  to  their 
ruin.  They  did  not  seem  to  me  strong  men  —  on  the 
contrary,  they  seemed  weak  men  —  or  men  strong  with 
one  insane  purpose.  They  set  their  faces  toward  the 
golden  north,  and  went  on  and  on  through  every  ob 
stacle  like  men  dreaming,  like  somnambulists — bending 
their  backs  to  the  most  crushing  burdens,  their  faces 
distorted  with  effort.  "  On  to  Dawson  !  "  u  To  the 
Klondike  !  "  That  was  all  they  knew. 

I  overtook  them  in  the  Fraser  River  Valley,  I  found 
them  in  Hazleton.  They  were  setting  sail  at  Bennett, 
tugging  oars  on  the  Hotalinqua,  and  hundreds  of  them 
were  landing  every  day  at  Dawson,  there  to  stand  with 
lax  jaws  waiting  for  something  to  turn  up  —  lost  among 
thousands  of  their  kind  swarming  in  with  the  same  in 
sane  purpose. 

Skagway  was  to  me  a  sad  place.  On  either  side 
rose  green  mountains  covered  with  crawling  glaciers. 
Between  these  stern  walls,  a  cold  and  violent  wind 
roared  ceaselessly  from  the  sea  gates  through  which  the 
ships  drive  hurriedly.  All  these  grim  presences  de 
pressed  me.  I  longed  for  release  from  them.  I  waited 
with  impatience  the  coming  of  the  steamer  which  was 
to  rescue  me  from  the  merciless  beach. 

At  last  it  came,  and  its  hoarse  boom  thrilled  the  heart 
of  many  a  homesick  man  like  myself.  We  had  not 
much  to  put  aboard,  and  when  I  climbed  the  gang-plank 
it  was  with  a  feeling  of  fortunate  escape. 


A    GIRL    ON    THE    TRAIL 

A  flutter  of  skirts  in  the  dapple  of  leaves  on  the  trees, 
The  sound  of  a  small,  happy  voice  on  the  breeze, 
The  print  of  a  slim  little  foot  on  the  trail, 
And  the  miners  rejoice  as  they  hammer  with  picks  in 
the  vale. 

For  fairer  than  gold  is  the  face  of  a  maid, 
And  sovereign  as  stars  the  light  of  her  eyes ; 
For  women  alone  were  the  long  trenches  laid ; 
For  women  alone  they  defy  the  stern  skies. 

These  toilers  are  grimy,  and  hairy,  and  dun 

With  the  wear  of  the  wind,  the  scorch  of  the  sun  ; 

But  their  picks  fall  slack,  their  foul  tongues  are  mute  — 

As  the  maiden  goes  by  these  earthworms  salute ! 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

HOMEWARD    BOUND 

THE  steamer  was  crowded  with  men  who  had  also 
made  the  turn  at  the  end  of  the  trail.  There  were 
groups  of  prospectors  (disappointed  and  sour)  from 
Copper  River,  where  neither  copper  nor  gold  had  been 
found.  There  were  miners  sick  and  broken  who  had 
failed  on  the  Tanana,  and  others,  emaciated  and  eager- 
eyed,  from  Dawson  City  going  out  with  a  part  of  the 
proceeds  of  the  year's  work  to  see  their  wives  and  chil 
dren.  There  were  a  few  who  considered  themselves 
great  capitalists,  and  were  on  their  way  to  spend  the 
winter  in  luxury  in  the  Eastern  cities,  and  there  were 
grub  stakers  who  had  squandered  their  employers'  money 
in  drink  and  gaming. 

None  of  them  interested  me  very  greatly.  I  was 
worn  out  with  the  filth  and  greed  and  foolishness  of 
many  of  these  men.  They  were  commonplace  citizens^ 
turned  into  stampeders  without  experience  or  skill. 

One  of  the  most  successful  men  on  the  boat  had  been 
a  truckman  in  the  streets  of  Tacoma,  and  was  now  the 
silly  possessor  of  a  one-third  interest  in  some  great 
mines  on  the  Klondike  River.  He  told  every  one  of 
his  great  deeds,  and  what  he  was  worth.  He  let  us 

R  241 


242  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

know  how  big  his  house  was,  and  how  much  he  paid 
for  his  piano.  He  was  not  a  bad  man,  he  was  merely 
a  cheap  man,  and  was  followed  about  by  a  gang  of 
heelers  to  whom  drink  was  luxury  and  vice  an  enter 
tainment.  These  parasites  slapped  the  teamster  on  the 
shoulder  and  listened  to  every  empty  phrase  he  uttered, 
as  though  his  gold  had  made  of  him  something  sacred 
and  omniscient. 

I  had  no  interest  in  him  till  being  persuaded  to  play 
the  fiddle  he  sat  in  the  "  social  room,"  and  sawed  away 
on  "  Honest  John,"  «  The  Devil's  Dream,"  "  Haste  to 
the  Wedding,"  and  "The  Fisher's  Hornpipe."  He 
lost  all  sense  of  being  a  millionnaire,  and  returned  to  his 
simple,  unsophisticated  self.  The  others  cheered  him 
because  he  had  gold.  I  cheered  him  because  he  was  a 
good  old  "corduroy  fiddler." 

Again  we  passed  between  the  lofty  blue-black  and 
bronze-green  walls  of  Lynn  Canal.  The  sea  was  cold, 
placid,  and  gray.  The  mist  cut  the  mountains  at  the 
shoulder.  Vast  glaciers  came  sweeping  down  from  the 
dread  mystery  of  the  upper  heights.  Lower  still  lines 
of  running  water  white  as  silver  came  leaping  down 
from  cliff  to  cliff — slender,  broken  of  line,  nearly  per 
pendicular —  to  fall  at  last  into  the  gray  hell  of  the  sea. 

It  was  a  sullen  land  which  menaced  as  with  lowering 
brows  and  clenched  fists.  A  landscape  without  delicacy 
of  detail  or  warmth  or  variety  of  color —  a  land  demand 
ing  young,  cheerful  men.  It  was  no  place  for  the  old 
or  for  women. 

As  we  neared  Wrangell  the  next  afternoon  I  tackled 


Homeward  Bound  243 

the  purser  about  carrying  my  horse.  He  had  no  room, 
so  I  left  the  boat  in  order  to  wait  for  another  with 
better  accommodations  for  Ladrone. 

Almost  the  first  man  I  met  on  the  wharf  was  Donald. 

"  How's  the  horse?"  I  queried. 

u  Gude  !  —  fat  and  sassy.  There's  no  a  fence  in  a' 
the  town  can  hold  him.  He  jumped  into  Colonel  Crit- 
tendon's  garden  patch,  and  there's  a  dollar  to  pay  for 
the  cauliflower  he  ate,  and  he  broke  down  a  fence  by 
the  church,  ye've  to  fix  that  up  —  but  he's  in  gude  trim 
himsel'." 

"  Tell  'm  to  send  in  their  bills,"  I  replied  with  vast 
relief.  "  Has  he  been  much  trouble  to  you  ?  " 

"  Verra  leetle  except  to  drive  into  the  lot  at  night. 
I  had  but  to  go  down  where  he  was  feeding  and  soon  as 
he  heard  me  comin'  he  made  for  the  lot  —  he  knew 
quite  as  well  as  I  did  what  was  wanted  of  him.  He's 
a  canny  old  boy." 

As  I  walked  out  to  find  the  horse  I  discovered  his 
paths  everywhere.  He  had  made  himself  entirely  at 
home.  He  owned  the  village  and  was  able  to  walk  any 
sidewalk  in  town.  Everybody  knew  his  habits.  He 
drank  in  a  certain  place,  and  walked  a  certain  round 
of  daily  feeding.  The  children  all  cried  out  at  me : 
u  Goin'  to  find  the  horsie  ?  He's  over  by  the  church." 
A  darky  woman  smiled  from  the  door  of  a  cabin  and 
said,  "  You  ole  hoss  lookin'  mighty  fine  dese  days." 

When  I  came  to  him  I  was  delighted  and  amused. 
He  had  taken  on  some  fat  and  a  great  deal  of  dirt. 
He  had  also  acquired  an  aldermanic  paunch  which  quite 


244  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

destroyed  his  natural  symmetry  of  body,  but  he  was  well 
and  strong  and  lively.  He  seemed  to  recognize  me, 
and  as  I  put  the  rope  about  his  neck  and  fell  to  in  the 
effort  to  make  him  clean  once  more,  he  seemed  glad  of 
my  presence.  . 

That  day  began  my  attempt  to  get  away.  I  carted 
out  my  feed  and  saddles,  and  when  all  was  ready  I  sat 
on  the  pier  and  watched  the  burnished  water  of  the  bay 
for  the  dim  speck  which  a  steamer  makes  in  rounding 
the  distant  island.  At  last  the  cry  arose,  "  A  steamer 
from  the  north ! "  I  hurried  for  Ladrone,  and  as  I 
passed  with  the  horse  the  citizens  smiled  incredulously 
and  asked,  "  Goin'  to  take  the  horse  with  you,  eh  ?  " 

The  boys  and  girls  came  out  to  say  good-by  to  the 
horse  on  whose  back  they  had  ridden.  Ladrone  fol 
lowed  me  most  trustfully,  looking  straight  ahead,  his  feet 
clumping  loudly  on  the  boards  of  the  walk.  Hitching 
him  on  the  wharf  I  lugged  and  heaved  and  got  every 
thing  in  readiness. 

In  vain !  The  steamer  had  no  place  for  my  horse 
and  I  was  forced  to  walk  him  back  and  turn  him  loose 
once  more  upon  the  grass.  I  renewed  my  watching. 
The  next  steamer  did  not  touch  at  the  same  wharf. 
Therefore  I  carted  all  my  goods,  feed,  hay,  and  general 
plunder,  around  to  the  other  wharf.  As  I  toiled  to  and 
fro  the  citizens  began  to  smile  very  broadly.  I  worked 
like  a  hired  man  in  harvest.  At  last,  horse,  feed,  and 
baggage  were  once  more  ready.  When  the  next  boat 
came  in  I  timidly  approached  the  purser. 

No,  he  had  no  place    for    me    but  would    take    my 


Homeward  Bound  245 

horse  !  Once  more  I  led  Ladrone  back  to  pasture  and 
the  citizens  laughed  most  unconcealedly.  They  laid 
bets  on  my  next  attempt.  In  McKinnon's  store  I  was 
greeted  as  a  permanent  citizen  of  Fort  Wrangell.  I 
began  to  grow  nervous  on  my  own  account.  Was  I 
to  remain  forever  in  Wrangell?  The  bay  was  most 
beautiful,  but  the  town  was  wretched.  It  became  each 
day  more  unendurable  to  me.  I  searched  the  waters  of 
the  bay  thereafter,  with  gaze  that  grew  really  anxious. 
I  sat  for  hours  late  at  night  holding  my  horse  and  glaring 
out  into  the  night  in  the  hope  to  see  the  lights  of  a 
steamer  appear  round  the  high  hills  of  the  coast. 

At  last  the  Forallen,  a  great  barnyard  of  a  ship,  came 
in.  I  met  the  captain.  I  paid  my  fare.  I  got  my  con 
tract  and  ticket,  and  leading  Ladrone  into  the  hoisting 
box  I  stepped  aside. 

The  old  boy  was  quiet  while  I  stood  near,  but  when 
the  whistle  sounded  and  the  sling  rose  in  air  leaving  me 
below,  his  big  eyes  flashed  with  fear  and  dismay.  He 
struggled  furiously  for  a  moment  and  then  was  quiet. 
A  moment  later  he  dropped  into  the  hold  and  was  safe. 
He  thought  himself  in  a  barn  once  more,  and  when  I 
came  hurrying  down  the  stairway  he  whinnied.  He 
seized  the  hay  I  put  before  him  and  thereafter  was  quite 
at  home. 

The  steamer  had  a  score  of  mules  and  work  horses  on 
board,  but  they  occupied  stalls  on  the  upper  deck,  leaving 
Ladrone  aristocratically  alone  in  his  big,  well-ventilated 
barn,  and  there  three  times  each  day  I  went  to  feed  and 
water  him.  I  rubbed  him  with  hay  till  his  coat  began 


246  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

to  glimmer  in  the  light  and  planned  what  I  could  do  to 
help  him  through  a  storm.  Fortunately  the  ocean  was 
perfectly  smooth  even  across  the  entrance  to  Queen 
Charlotte's  Sound,  where  the  open  sea  enters  and  the  big 
swells  are  sometimes  felt.  Ladrone  never  knew  he  was 
moving  at  all. 

The  mate  of  the  boat  took  unusual  interest  in  the 
horse  because  of  his  deeds  and  my  care  of  him. 

Meanwhile  I  was  hearing  from  time  to  time  of  my 
fellow-sufferers  on  the  Long  Trail.  It  was  reported  in 
Wrangell  that  some  of  the  unfortunates  were  still  on 
the  snowy  divide  between  the  Skeena  and  the  Stikeen. 
That  terrible  trail  will  not  soon  be  forgotten  by  any  one 
who  traversed  it. 

On  the  fifth  day  we  entered  Seattle  and  once  more 
the  sling-box  opened  its  doors  for  Ladrone.  This  time 
he  struggled  not  at  all.  He  seemed  to  say  :  u  I  know 
this  thing.  I  tried  it  once  and  it  didn't  hurt  me  —  I'm 
not  afraid." 

Now  this  horse  belongs  to  the  wild  country.  He  was 
born  on  the  bunch-grass  hills  of  British  Columbia  and 
he  had  never  seen  a  street-car  in  his  life.  Engines  he 
knew  something  about,  but  not  much.  Steamboats  and 
ferries  he  knew  a  great  deal  about ;  but  all  the  strange 
monsters  and  diabolical  noises  of  a  city  street  were  new 
to  him,  and  it  was  with  some  apprehension  that  I  took 
his  rein  to  lead  him  down  to  the  freight  depot  and 
his  car. 

Again  this  wonderful  horse  amazed  me.  He  pointed 
his  alert  and  quivering  ears  at  me  and  followed  with 


Homeward  Bound  247 

never  so  much  as  a  single  start  or  shying  bound.  He 
seemed  to  reason  that  as  I  had  led  him  through  many 
dangers  safely  I  could  still  be  trusted.  Around  us  huge 
trucks  rattled,  electric  cars  clanged,  railway  engines 
whizzed  and  screamed,  but  Ladrone  never  so  much  as 
tightened  the  rein ;  and  when  in  the  dark  of  the  chute 
(which  led  to  the  door  of  the  car)  he  put  his  soft  nose 
against  me  to  make  sure  I  was  still  with  him,  my  heart 
grew  so  tender  that  I  would  not  have  left  him  behind 
for  a  thousand  dollars. 

I  put  him  in  a  roomy  box-car  and  bedded  him  knee- 
deep  in  clean  yellow  straw.  I  padded  the  hitching  pole 
with  his  blanket,  moistened  his  hay,  and  put  some  bran 
before  him.  Then  I  nailed  him  in  and  took  my  leave 
of  him  with  some  nervous  dread,  for  the  worst  part  of 
his  journey  was  before  him.  He  must  cross  three  great 
mountain  ranges  and  ride  eight  days,  over  more  than 
two  thousand  miles  of  railway.  I  could  not  well  go 
with  him,  but  I  planned  to  overhaul  him  at  Spokane 
and  see  how  he  was  coming  on. 

I  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  I  recalled  how  the 
great  forest  trees  were  blazing  last  year  when  I  rode 
over  this  same  track.  I  thought  of  the  sparks  flying 
from  the  engine,  and  how  easy  it  would  be  for  a  single 
cinder  to  fall  in  the  door  and  set  all  that  dry  straw 
ablaze.  I  was  tired  and  my  mind  conjured  up  such  dire 
images  as  men  dream  of  after  indigestible  dinners. 


O    THE    FIERCE    DELIGHT 

O  the  fierce  delight,  the  passion 

That  comes  from  the  wild, 
Where  the  rains  and  the  snows  go  over, 

And  man  is  a  child. 

Go,  set  your  face  to  the  open, 
And  lay  your  breast  to  the  blast, 

When  the  pines  are  rocking  and  groaning, 
And  the  rent  clouds  tumble  past. 

Go  swim  the  streams  of  the  mountains, 
Where  the  gray-white  waters  are  mad, 

Go  set  your  foot  on  the  summit, 
And  shout  and  be  glad  ! 


249 


CHAPTER   XXV 

LADRONE    TRAVELS    IN    STATE 

WITH  a  little  leisure  to  walk  about  and  talk  with  the 
citizens  of  Seattle,  I  became  aware  of  a  great  change 
since  the  year  before.  The  boom  of  the  goldseeker 
was  over.  The  talk  was  more  upon  the  Spanish  war ; 
the  business  of  outfitting  was  no  longer  paramount ;  the 
reckless  hurrah,  the  splendid  exultation,  were  gone. 
Men  were  sailing  to  the  north,  but  they  embarked, 
methodically,  in  business  fashion. 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  the  north  will  never  again  wit 
ness  such  a  furious  rush  of  men  as  that  which  took  place 
between  August,  '97,  and  June,  '98.  Gold  is  still  there, 
and  it  will  continue  to  be  sought,  but  the  attention  of 
the  people  is  directed  elsewhere.  In  Seattle,  as  all  along 
the  line,  the  talk  a  year  ago  had  been  almost  entirely 
on  gold  hunting.  Every  storekeeper  advertised  Klondike 
goods,  but  these  signs  were  now  rusty  and  faded.  The 
fever  was  over,  the  reign  of  the  humdrum  was  restored. 

Taking  the  train  next  day,  I  passed  Ladrone  in  the 
night  somewhere,  and  as  I  looked  from  my  window  at 
the  great  fires  blazing  in  the  forest,  my  fear  of  his  burn 
ing  came  upon  me  again.  At  Spokane  I  waited  with 
great  anxiety  for  him  to  arrive.  At  last  the  train  drew 

251 


252          The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

in  and  I  hurried  to  his  car.  The  door  was  closed,  and 
as  I  nervously  forced  it  open  he  whinnied  with  that  glad 
chuckling  a  gentle  horse  uses  toward  his  master.  He 
had  plenty  of  hay,  but  was  hot  and  thirsty,  and  I  hurried 
at  risk  of  life  and  limb  to  bring  him  cool  water.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  shine  with  delight  as  he  saw  me  coming 
with  the  big  bucket  of  cool  drink.  Leaving  him  a  tub 
of  water,  I  bade  him  good-by  once  more  and  started  him 
for  Helena,  five  hundred  miles  away. 

At  Missoula,  the  following  evening,  I  rushed  into  the 
ticket  office  and  shouted,  "  Where  is  c  54 '  ?  " 

The  clerk  knew  me  and  smilingly  extended  his  hand. 

"  How  de  do  ?  She  has  just  pulled  out.  The  horse 
is  all  O  K.  We  gave  him  fresh  water  and  feed." 

I  thanked  him  and  returned  to  my  train. 

Reaching  Livingston  in  the  early  morning  I  was  forced 
to  wait  nearly  all  day  for  the  train.  This  was  no  hard 
ship,  however,  for  it  enabled  me  to  return  once  more  to 
the  plain.  All  the  old  familiar  presences  were  there. 
The  splendid  sweep  of  brown,  smooth  hills,  the  glory  of 
clear  sky,  the  crisp  exhilarating  air,  appealed  to  me  with 
great  power  after  my  long  stay  in  the  cold,  green  moun 
tains  of  the  north. 

I  walked  out  a  few  miles  from  the  town  over  the  grass 
brittle  and  hot,  from  which  the  clapping  grasshoppers 
rose  in  swarms,  and  dropping  down  on  the  point  of  a 
mesa  I  relived  again  in  drowse  the  joys  of  other  days. 
It  was  plain  to  me  that  goldseeking  in  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains  was  marvellously  simple  and  easy  compared  to 
even  the  best  sections  of  the  Northwest,  and  the  long 


Ladrone  Travels  in  State  253 

journey  of  the  Forty-niners  was  not  only  incredibly 
more  splendid  and  dramatic,  but  had  the  allurement  of 
a  land  of  eternal  summer  beyond  the  final  great  range. 
The  long  trail  I  had  just  passed  was  not  only  grim  and 
monotonous,  but  led  toward  an  ever  increasing  ferocity 
of  cold  and  darkness  to  the  arctic  circle  and  the  silence 
of  death. 

When  the  train  came  crawling  down  the  pink  and 
purple  slopes  of  the  hills  at  sunset  that  night,  I  was 
ready  for  my  horse.  Bridle  in  hand  I  raced  after  the 
big  car  while  it  was  being  drawn  up  into  the  freight 
yards.  As  I  galloped  I  held  excited  controversy  with 
the  head  brakeman.  I  asked  that  the  car  be  sent  to  the 
platform.  He  objected.  I  insisted  and  the  car  was 
thrown  in.  I  entered,  and  while  Ladrone  whinnied  glad 
welcome  I  knocked  out  some  bars,  bridled  him,  and  said, 
"  Come,  boy,  now  for  a  gambol."  He  followed  me 
without  the  slightest  hesitation  out  on  the  platform  and 
down  the  steep  slope  to  the  ground.  There  I  mounted 
him  without  waiting  for  saddle  and  away  we  flew. 

He  was  gay  as  a  bird.  His  neck  arched  and  his  eyes 
and  ears  were  quick  as  squirrels.  We  galloped  down  to 
the  Yellowstone  River  and  once  more  he  thrust  his 
dusty  nozzle  deep  into  the  clear  mountain  water.  Then 
away  he  raced  until  our  fifteen  minutes  were  up.  I  was 
glad  to  quit.  He  was  too  active  for  me  to  enjoy  riding 
without  a  saddle.  Right  up  to  the  door  of  the  car  he 
trotted,  seeming  to  understand  that  his  journey  was  not 
yet  finished.  He  entered  unhesitatingly  and  took  his 
place.  I  battened  down  the  bars,  nailed  the  doors  into 


254  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

place,  filled  his  tub  with  cold  water,  mixed  him  a  bran 
mash,  and  once  more  he  rolled  away.  I  sent  him  on 
this  time,  however,  with  perfect  confidence.  He  was 
actually  getting  fat  on  his  prison  fare,  and  was  too  wise 
to  allow  himself  to  be  bruised  by  the  jolting  of  the  cars. 

The  bystanders  seeing  a  horse  travelling  in  such 
splendid  loneliness  asked,  "  Runnin'  horse  ?  "  and  I  (to 
cover  my  folly)  replied  evasively,  "  He  can  run  a  little 
for  good  money."  This  satisfied  every  one  that  he  was 
a  sprinter  and  quite  explained  his  private  car. 

At  Bismarck  I  found  myself  once  more  ahead  of 
"  54  "  and  waited  all  day  for  the  horse  to  appear.  As 
the  time  of  the  train  drew  near  I  borrowed  a  huge 
water  pail  and  tugged  a  supply  of  water  out  beside  the 
track  and  there  sat  for  three  hours,  expecting  the  train 
each  moment.  At  last  it  came,  but  Ladrone  was  not 
there.  His  car  was  missing.  I  rushed  into  the 
office  of  the  operator:  "Where's  the  horse  in  '13,238  '  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  agent,  in  the  tone  of 
one  who  didn't  care. 

Visions  of  Ladrone  side-tracked  somewhere  and  per 
ishing  for  want  of  air  and  water  filled  my  mind.  I 
waxed  warm. 

"  That  horse  must  be  found  at  once,"  I  said.  The 
clerks  and  operators  wearily  looked  out  of  the  window. 
The  idea  of  any  one  being  so  concerned  about  a  horse 
was  to  them  insanity  or  worse.  I  insisted.  I  banged 
my  fist  on  the  table.  At  last  one  of  the  young  men 
yawned  languidly,  looked  at  me  with  dim  eyes,  and  as 


Ladrone  Travels  in  State  255 

one  brain-cell  coalesced  with  another  seemed  to  mature 
an  idea.  He  said  :  — 

"  Rheinhart  had  a  horse  this  morning  on  his  extra." 

"Did  he  —  maybe  that's  the  one."  They  discussed 
this  probability  with  lazy  indifference.  At  last  they 
condescended  to  include  me  in  their  conversation. 

I  insisted  on  their  telegraphing  till  they  found  that 
horse,  and  with  an  air  of  distress  and  saint-like  patience 
the  agent  wrote  out  a  telegram  and  sent  it.  Thereafter 
he  could  not  see  me  ;  nevertheless  I  persisted.  I  returned 
to  the  office  each  quarter  of  an  hour  to  ask  if  an  answer 
had  come  to  the  telegram.  At  last  it  came.  Ladrone 
was  ahead  and  would  arrive  in  St.  Paul  nearly  twelve  hours 
before  me.  I  then  telegraphed  the  officers  of  the  road 
to  see  that  he  did  not  suffer  and  composed  myself  as 
well  as  I  could  for  the  long  wait. 

At  St.  Paul  I  hurried  to  the  freight  office  and  found 
the  horse  had  been  put  in  a  stable.  I  sought  the  stable, 
and  there,  among  the  big  dray  horses,  looking  small  and 
trim  as  a  racer,  was  the  lost  horse,  eating  merrily  on 
some  good  Minnesota  timothy.  He  was  just  as  much 
at  ease  there  as  in  the  car  or  the  boat  or  on  the  marshes 
of  the  Skeena  valley,  but  he  was  still  a  half-day's  ride 
from  his  final  home. 

I  bustled  about  filling  up  another  car.  Again  for  the 
last  time  I  sweated  and  tugged  getting  feed,  water,  and 
bedding.  Again  the  railway  hands  marvelled  and  looked 
askance.  Again  some  one  said,  u  Does  it  pay  to  bring 
a  horse  like  that  so  far  ?  " 

"  Pay  !  "  I   shouted,  thoroughly    disgusted,  u  does  it 


256  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

pay  to  feed  a  dog  for  ten  years  ?  Does  it  pay  to  ride  a 
bicycle  ?  Does  it  pay  to  bring  up  a  child  ?  Pay  —  no ; 
it  does  not  pay.  I'm  amusing  myself.  You  drink  beer 
because  you  like  to,  you  use  tobacco  —  I  squander  my 
money  on  a  horse."  I  said  a  good  deal  more  than  the 
case  demanded,  being  hot  and  dusty  and  tired  and  —  I 
had  broken  loose.  The  clerk  escaped  through  a  side 
door. 

Once  more  I  closed  the  bars  on  the  gray  and  saw  him 
wheeled  out  into  the  grinding,  jolting  tangle  of  cars 
where  the  engines  cried  out  like  some  untamable  flesh- 
eating  monsters.  The  light  was  falling,  the  smoke  thick 
ening,  and  it  was  easy  to  imagine  a  tragic  fate  for  the 
patient  and  lonely  horse. 

Delay  in  getting  the  car  made  me  lose  my  train  and  I 
was  obliged  to  take  a  late  train  which  did  not  stop  at 
my  home.  I  was  still  paying  for  my  horse  out  of  my 
own  bone  and  sinew.  At  last  the  luscious  green  hills, 
the  thick  grasses,  the  tall  corn-shocks  and  the  portly 
hay-stacks  of  my  native  valley  came  in  view  and  they 
never  looked  so  abundant,  so  generous,  so  entirely  suf 
ficing  to  man  and  beast  as  now  in  returning  from  a  land 
of  cold  green  forests,  sparse  grass,  and  icy  streams. 

At  ten  o'clock  another  huge  freight  train  rolled  in, 
Ladrone's  car  was  side-tracked  and  sent  to  the  chute. 
For  the  last  time  he  felt  the  jolt  of  the  car.  In  a  few 
minutes  I  had  his  car  opened  and  a  plank  laid. 

"  Come,  boy  !  "  I  called.     "  This  is  home." 

He  followed  me  as  before,  so  readily,  so  trustingly,  my 
heart  responded  to  his  affection.  I  swung  to  the  saddle. 


Ladrone  Travels  in  State  257 

With  neck  arched  high  and  with  a  proud  and  lofty  stride 
he  left  the  door  of  his  prison  behind  him.  His  fame  had 
spread  through  the  village.  On  every  corner  stood  the 
citizens  to  see  him  pass. 

As  I  entered  the  door  to  the  barn  I  said  to  him :  — 
"  Enter !     Your   days  of  thirst,  of  hunger,  of  cruel 
exposure  to  rain  and  snow  are  over.      Here  is  food  that 
shall  not  fail,"  and  he  seemed  to  understand. 

It  might  seem  absurd  if  I  were  to  give  expression  to 
the  relief  and  deep  pleasure  it  gave  me  to  put  that  horse 
into  that  familiar  stall.  He  had  been  with  me  more 
than  four  thousand  miles.  He  had  carried  me  through 
hundreds  of  icy  streams  and  over  snow  fields.  He  had 
responded  to  every  word  and  obeyed  every  command. 
He  had  suffered  from  cold  and  hunger  and  poison.  He 
had  walked  logs  and  wallowed  through  quicksands.  He 
had  helped  me  up  enormous  mountains  and  I  had  guided 
him  down  dangerous  declivities.  His  faithful  heart  had 
never  failed  even  in  days  of  direst  need,  and  now  he 
shall  live  amid  plenty  and  have  no  care  so  long  as  he 
lives.  It  does  not  pay,  —  that  is  sure, —  but  after  all 
what  does  pay  ? 


THE    LURE    OF    THE    DESERT 

I  lie  in  my  blanket,  alone,  alone  ! 

Hearing  the  voice  of  the  roaring  rain, 

And  my  heart  is  moved  by  the  wind's  low  moan 

To  wander  the  wastes  of  the  wind-worn  plain, 

Searching  for  something  —  I  cannot  tell  — 

The  face  of  a  woman,  the  love  of  a  child  — 

Or  only  the  rain-wet  prairie  swell 

Or  the  savage  woodland  wide  and  wild. 

I  must  go  away  —  I  know  not  where  ! 
Lured  by  voices  that  cry  and  cry, 
Drawn  by  fingers  that  clutch  my  hair, 
Called  to  the  mountains  bleak  and  high, 
Led  to  the  mesas  hot  and  bare. 

0  God  !      How  my  heart's  blood  wakes  and  thrills 
To  the  cry  of  the  wind,  the  lure  of  the  hills. 

I'll  follow  you,  follow  you  far ; 
Ye  voices  of  winds,  and  rain  and  sky, 
To  the  peaks  that  shatter  the  evening  star. 
Wealth,  honor,  wife,  child  —  all 

1  have  in  the  city's  keep, 

I  loose  and  forget  when  ye  call  and  call 
And  the  desert  winds  around  me  sweep. 


258 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE    GOLDSEEKERS    REACH    THE    GOLDEN    RIVER 

THE  goldseekers  are  still  seeking.  I  withdrew,  but 
they  went  on.  In  the  warmth  and  security  of  my  study, 
surrounded  by  the  peace  and  comfort  of  my  native 
Coolly,  I  thought  of  them  as  they  went  toiling  over 
the  trail,  still  toward  the  north.  It  was  easy  for  me  to 
imagine  their  daily  life.  The  Manchester  boys  and  Bur 
ton,  my  partner,  left  Glenora  with  ten  horses  and  more 
than  two  thousand  pounds  of  supplies. 

Twice  each  day  this  immense  load  had  to  be  handled  ; 
sometimes  in  order  to  rest  and  graze  the  ponies,  every 
sack  and  box  had  to  be  taken  down  and  lifted  up  to 
their  lashings  again  four  times  each  day.  This  meant 
toil.  It  meant  also  constant  worry  and  care  while  the 
train  was  in  motion.  Three  times  each  day  a  campfire 
was  built  and  coffee  and  beans  prepared. 

However,  the  weather  continued  fair,  my  partner 
wrote  me,  and  they  arrived  at  Teslin  Lake  in  September, 
after  being  a  month  on  the  road,  and  there  set  about 
building  a  boat  to  carry  them  down  the  river. 

Here  the  horses  were  sold,  and  I  know  it  must  have 
been  a  sad  moment  for  Burton  to  say  good-by  to  his 
faithful  brutes.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  There 

259 


160  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

was  no  more  thought  of  going  to  the  head-waters  of  the 
Pelly  and  no  more  use  for  the  horses.  Indeed,  the  gold- 
hunters  abandoned  all  thought  of  the  Nisutlin  and  the 
Hotalinqua.  They  were  fairly  in  the  grasp  of  the  tre 
mendous  current  which  seemed  to  get  ever  swifter  as  it 
approached  the  mouth  of  the  Klondike  River.  They 
were  mad  to  reach  the  pool  wherein  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  was  fishing.  Nothing  less  would  satisfy  them. 

At  last  they  cast  loose  from  the  shore  and  started 
down  the  river,  straight  into  the  north.  Each  hour, 
each  mile,  became  a  menace.  Day  by  day  they  drifted 
while  the  spitting  snows  fell  hissing  into  the  cold  water, 
and  ice  formed  around  the  keel  of  the  boat  at  night. 
They  passed  men  camped  and  panning  dirt,  but  contin 
ued  resolute,  halting  only  "  to  pass  the  good  word." 

It  grew  cold  with  appalling  rapidity  and  the  sun  fell 
away  to  the  south  with  desolating  speed.  The  skies 
darkened  and  lowered  as  the  days  shortened.  All  signs 
of  life  except  those  of  other  argonauts  disappeared.  The 
river  filled  with  drifting  ice,  and  each  night  landing  be 
came  more  difficult. 

At  last  the  winter  came.  The  river  closed  up  like 
an  iron  trap,  and  before  they  knew  it  they  were  caught  in 
the  jam  of  ice  and  fighting  for  their  lives.  They  landed 
on  a  wooded  island  after  a  desperate  struggle  and  went 
into  camp  with  the  thermometer  thirty  below  zero.  But 
what  of  that  ?  They  were  now  in  the  gold  belt.  After 
six  months  of  incessant  toil,  of  hope  deferred,  they  were 
at  last  on  the  spot  toward  which  they  had  struggled. 

All  around  them  was  the  overflow  from  the  Klondike. 


The  Goldseekers  Reach  the  Golden  River    261 

Their  desire  to  go  farther  was  checked.  They  had 
reached  the  counter  current  —  the  back-water  —  and 
were  satisfied. 

Leaving  to  others  the  task  of  building  a  permanent 
camp,  my  sturdy  partner,  a  couple  of  days  later,  started 
prospecting  in  company  with  two  others  whom  he  had 
selected  to  represent  the  other  outfit.  The  thermome 
ter  was  fifty-six  degrees  below  zero,  and  yet  for  seven 
days,  with  less  than  six  hours'  sleep,  without  a  tent,  those 
devoted  idiots  hunted  the  sands  of  a  near-by  creek  for 
gold,  and  really  staked  claims. 

On  the  way  back  one  of  the  men  grew  sleepy  and 
would  have  lain  down  to  die  except  for  the  vigorous 
treatment  of  Burton,  who  mauled  him  and  dragged  him 
about  and  rubbed  him  with  snow  until  his  blood  began 
to  circulate  once  more.  In  attempting  to  walk  on  the 
river,  which  was  again  in  motion,  Burton  fell  through, 
wetting  one  leg  above  the  knee.  It  was  still  more  than 
thirty  degrees  below  zero,  but  what  of  that  ?  He  merely 
kept  going. 

They  reached  the  bank  opposite  the  camp  late  on  the 
seventh  day,  but  were  unable  to  cross  the  moving  ice. 
For  the  eighth  night  they  u  danced  around  the  fire  as 
usual,"  not  daring  to  sleep  for  fear  of  freezing.  They 
literally  frosted  on  one  side  while  scorching  at  the  fire 
on  the  other,  turning  like  so  many  roasting  pigs  before 
the  blaze.  The  river  solidified  during  the  night  and 
they  crossed  to  the  camp  to  eat  and  sleep  in  safety. 

A  couple  of  weeks  later  they  determined  to  move 
down  the  river  to  a  new  stampede  in  Thistle  Creek. 


262  The  Trail  of  the  Goldseekers 

Once  more  these  indomitable  souls  left  their  warm 
cabin,  took  up  their  beds  and  nearly  two  thousand  pounds 
of  outfit  and  toiled  down  the  river  still  farther  into  the 
terrible  north.  The  chronicle  of  this  trip  by  Burton  is 
of  mathematical  brevity  :  "  On  2Oth  concluded  to  move. 
Took  four  days.  Very  cold.  Ther.  down  to  45  below. 
Froze  one  toe.  Got  claim  —  now  building  cabin.  Ex 
pect  to  begin  singeing  in  a  few  days." 

The  toil,  the  suffering,  the  monotonous  food,  the  lack 
of  fire,  he  did  not  dwell  upon,  but  singeing,  that  is  to  say 
burning  down  through  the  eternally  frozen  ground,  was 
to  begin  at  once.  To  singe  a  hole  into  the  soil  ten  or 
fifteen  feet  deep  in  the  midst  of  the  sunless  severity  of 
the  arctic  circle  is  no  light  task,  but  these  men  will  do  it ; 
if  hardihood  and  honest  toil  are  of  any  avail  they  will  all 
share  in  the  precious  sand  whose  shine  has  lured  them 
through  all  the  dark  days  of  the  long  trail,  calling  with 
such  power  that  nothing  could  stay  them  or  turn  them 
aside. 

If  they  fail,  well  — 

This  out  of  all  will  remain, 
They  have  lived  and  have  tossed. 
So  much  of  the  game  will  be  gain, 
Though  the  gold  of  the  dice  has  been  lost. 


HERE    THE    TRAIL    ENDS 

Here  the  trail  ends  —  Here  by  a  river 
So  swifter,  and  darker,  and  colder 
Than  any  we  crossed  on  our  long,  long  way. 
Steady,  Dan,  steady.      Ho,  there,  my  dapple, 
You  first  from  the  saddle  shall  slip  and  be  free. 
Now  go,  you  are  clear  from  command  of  a  master; 
Go  wade  in  the  grasses,  go  munch  at  the  grain. 
I  love  you,  my  faithful,  but  all  is  now  over; 
Ended  the  comradeship  held  'twixt  us  twain. 
I  go  to  the  river  and  the  wide  lands  beyond  it, 
You  go  to  the  pasture,  and  death  claims  us  all. 
For  here  the  trail  ends! 

Here  the  trail  ends! 

Draw  near  with  the  broncos. 

Slip  the  hitch,  loose  the  cinches, 

Slide  the  saw-bucks  away  from  each  worn,  weary  back. 

We  are  done  with  the  axe,  the  camp,  and  the  kettle ; 

Strike  hand  to  each  cayuse  and  send  him  away. 

Let  them  go  where  the  roses  and  grasses  are  growing, 

To  the  meadows  that  slope  to  the  warm  western  sea. 

No  more  shall  they  serve  us ;  no  more  shall  they  suffer 

The  sting  of  the  lash,  the  heat  of  the  day. 

Soon  they  will  go  to  a  winterless  haven, 

To  the  haven  of  beasts  where  none  may  enslave. 

For  here  the  trail  ends. 


263 


Here  the  trail  ends. 

Never  again  shall  the  far-shining  mountains  allure  us, 

No  more  shall  the  icy  mad  torrents  appall. 

Fold  up  the  sling  ropes,  coil  down  the  cinches, 

Cache  the  saddles,  and  put  the  brown  bridles  away. 

Not  one  of  the  roses  of  Navajo  silver, 

Not  even  a  spur  shall  we  save  from  the  rust. 

Put  away  the  worn  tent-cloth,  let  the  red  people  have  it ; 

We  are  done  with  all  shelter,  we  are  done  with  the  gun. 

Not  so  much  as  a  pine  branch,  not  even  a  willow 

Shall  swing  in  the  air  'twixt  us  and  our  God. 

Naked  and  lone  we  cross  the  wide  ferry, 

Bare  to  the  cold,  the  dark  and  the  rain. 

For  here  the  trail  ends. 

Here  the  trail  ends.      Here  by  the  landing 

I  wait  the  last  boat,  the  slow  silent  one. 

We  each  go  alone  —  no  man  with  another, 

Each  into  the  gloom  of  the  swift  black  flood  — 

Boys,  it  is  hard,  but  here  we  must  scatter; 

The  gray  boatman  waits,  and  I  —  I  go  first. 

All  is  dark  over  there  where  the  dim  boat  is  rocking  — 

But  that  is  no  matter !     No  man  need  to  fear  j 

For  clearly  we're  told  the  powers  that  lead  us 

Shall  govern  the  game  to  the  end  of  the  day. 

Good-by  —  here  the  trail  ends! 


264 


WORKS  BY 

GILBERT  PARKER. 


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PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

WHEN  VALMOND  CAME  TO  PONTIAC. 

AN  ADVENTURER  OF  THE  NORTH. 

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